


Only The Freaks Come Out At Night

by shippingmyarmada



Series: You Make Me Not Want To Die [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy's a little bit of a masochist, Billy's dad is a pos, Blowjobs, Canon-Typical Violence, El and Billy bond because i really love that trope, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fight Sex, Frottage, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marijuana, Mild Suicidal Ideation?, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Slurs, They are sad boys, because i can't write anything that isnt angsty as hell, for the Trash King, i guess?, redemption arc, self-destructive behaviors, sex while high, the boys are damaged, this is mostly a character study of Billy Hargrove because he could be so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:16:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15326559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shippingmyarmada/pseuds/shippingmyarmada
Summary: After a long pause, long enough for Steve to think he’s not getting an answer (not that he knows if he wants one anyway) Billy responds, “All the fucking time, pretty boy.” Because sometimes getting hypothermia sounds more appealing than going home.They each smoke another cigarette in silence. Harrington’s face glows softly in the cherry light, his eyebrows furrowed as he stares into the inky water.Aka some sort of character study of Billy Hargrove.(Previously named 'You Make Me Not Want to Die' but that's the name of the series now)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title changed to have it as the series name.
> 
> Also, I fucked up and just realized it, 12 chapters in and since I already have some little plot points around it I'm not going to change it. For some reason I thought season 2 started in 1985, not 1984. So just pretend that everything is the same but one year later. Woops. I thought I had checked that when I started this fic but I guess I didn't. Sorry!

Billy hated seeing his breath in the air. He hated the snow as it fell around him. He hated the way the tip of his nose turned pink. He hated how the wind whipped his cheeks raw. He hated the cold that seeped through his leather jacket. He hated _Hawkins._ The worst of winter trudged on without seeing Harrington outside mandatory basketball practice. Which really was the only good thing about Hawkins. The fact that he went from good in California to a legend in the small town and their shitty basketball team.

Not seeing Harrington is purposeful in the wake of what happened in the Byers’ home. He had gone too far that night, and he knew it. Max didn’t speak to him much after that, and his behaviour got more unpredictable. Neil beat him more frequently than ever. Usually avoiding his face, but occasionally there would be a slip up and Billy would have a black eye that he had to pass off as a fight injury. It became a self-punishment routine. Billy would fuck up, Neil would push him around, and Billy would spend the night at the quarry hating himself and everyone around him. It was easier to cover the guilt he felt with anger than to face it head on. So he avoided Harrington and drove fast and played loud music and mouthed off to his dad and got beat for it and spent his nights in his car and it almost worked. Almost.

 

Cold December air nipped at Billy’s nose as he sat by the quarry, bringing color to his cheeks that matched the red rims of his eyes. He’s on his third cigarette in the ten minutes he’s been sitting on a fallen log. The rage sunk out of him with every exhale of bitter smoke. It left him as empty as the winter sky, stars hidden by a snowy haze. 

A shadow stumbles out of the woods, waving a bat around, smacking trees with loud thunks. He hates it.

“Fuck off,” he yells at it, watching it freeze like a deer in headlights, “Get lost, find your own shitty spot in this town. This one is claimed.”

He goes back to chain smoking his cigarettes, shoulders deflating as the anger leaves him once again. His side burns, fiery underneath the skin that fuels the same heat behind red rimmed eyes. He had mouthed off when Neil got home from work, said something stupid that he can’t even remember, which earned him a bookshelf to the back and a boot to the ribs, “faggot” spat in his face. 

The heavy thunk of a baseball bat in the sand almost makes him drop his fourth cigarette, luckily only dropping hot embers onto his hand. He lets them burn where they land. 

“Can I bum a cig?” Harrington asks, because of course it's Harrington.

“Thought I told you to fuck off,” Billy responds gruffly, tapping out a cigarette from the crumpled carton anyway.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

They sit in heavy, smokey silence. Neither boy has the right to question without expecting the same question shot back. Neither boy really wants to explain their reason for being at the quarry at two in the morning. 

Minutes tick by, each boy smokes another cigarette before Steve asks quietly, “Ever feel like jumping in?”

After a long pause, long enough for Steve to think he’s not getting an answer (not that he knows if he wants one anyway) Billy responds, “All the fucking time, pretty boy.” Because sometimes getting hypothermia sounds more appealing than going home. He’s not sure if that’s what Harrington meant, but something in the melancholy tone of his voice makes him think it is.

They each smoke another cigarette in silence. Harrington’s face glows softly in the cherry light, his eyebrows furrowed as he stares into the inky water. Billy hates how beautiful he is. How King Steve looks almost troubled out here in the light of the night. How he must be troubled, because no untroubled person spends their midnight hours silently at the quarry.

“Is that that fucking bat,” Billy finally notices, “What the fuck, Harrington? Did Maxine get that thing from you?” 

“Fuck off, Hargrove,” Harringotn snarls.

“No, she’s my little sister, I will not fuck off if you’re giving her weapons, she’s like ten, and she tried to castrate me,” Billy can feel the fire creeping up in him, itching for a fight. “Then what would you have to look at in the showers?” He sneers the last part, trying to rile the other boy.

“First of all, she’s almost fourteen, second of all since when do you care about her?” Steve is getting mad now, too, much to Billy’s pleasure. 

“Fuck off, I don’t,” he spits back.

That makes Harrington pause, studying the blond’s face in the dark. “I don’t believe that.”

“Why couldn’t you just fuck off and leave me alone?”

There’s silence after that, heavy and loaded with the fight that Billy wanted but didn’t get. They each smoke another cigarette.

“Why are you so angry all the time?” Harrington asks finally, as soft as the wind in the needles of northern conifers. 

Billy stares at him through the dark, caught once again. He shakes his head, curls bouncing lightly. “You wouldn’t like the answer.”

“Try me anyway.”

Billy stays silent. Silent until Harrington drops the butt of his cigarette in the sand and stands up from the log.

“You’re different than what I thought, Hargrove.”

“Yeah well assumptions make an ass out of you and me. Mostly you, though,” Billy growls, uncaring.

“Max says you used to be different. Almost nice. Why are you so angry all the time now?” He asks again, as if expecting a different answer.

“Ask Maxine, apparently she has the damn insight on all that is Billy Hargrove.”

“You’re an ass.” 

“A fine piece of one too, pretty boy.” 

That’s all it takes for Harrington to storm off, bat in tow, only to swing it hard and lodge it into a nearby tree. He yells something that sounds a lot like “Fuck you, Hargrove,” as he wrenches it out of the bark.

And Billy is finally alone again.

 

Harrington thought he was the reason Billy started changing after that night at the quarry. He wasn’t. 

It was Max, it would always be Max. 

The Camaro had roared outside the middle school. He no longer got out of the car to wait, blaming the cold instead of the words she yelled in the Byers’ house. Rage pooled in his stomach, lit his eyes in hot fire as she smiled with her stupid friends. He didn’t bother saying anything to her anymore, either. Instead, he turned the music up too loud and drove too fast and took turns hard enough for her knuckles to turn white on the door.

She had been in a bad mood the second she stepped out of the middle school. Billy could see it, could taste it in the air even if her little friends couldn’t. Her eyes burned bright behind the blue as he pressed the pedal harder. She screamed and punched the dashboard when he braked hard enough for her seatbelt to catch. 

Billy had caught her hand on the recoil, “Don’t fucking do that, you little asshole,” he growled above the radio. 

She ripped her arm from his grasp, “You’re just like him, I hate you!” she screeched, wrenching the door open and stepping on her duct taped skateboard the second she was out of the car. There had been a fight the night before, mostly Neil screaming at Susan and finishing with a good shove of Billy into a bookshelf. It usually left Max raw and angry the next day, but Billy rarely found it in himself to give a shit about how she felt about it. It wasn’t like she ever got hit.

He was out of the car at her words, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows to let his frustration out. “Get back in the fucking car, Maxine,” Billy yelled after her retreating figure.

She just flipped him off over her shoulder, “Fuck off, Billy!”

The car door slammed against his shoulder as he got back into the car, biting pain where it started to bruise the hard flesh. He punched the steering wheel a few times for good measure, revelling in the pain it caused. It was easier than listening to her harsh words that bounced around in his head, screaming. “You’re just like him.” 

He bought Max a new skateboard for Christmas, and thought he had done well when it wasn’t in the garbage the next day. Not that she had ridden it anywhere. But it was a start.

There had been a time before they left California where the two siblings almost liked each other. When Neil and Susan would leave for the weekends, with a vague threat to Billy on the responsibilities of being an older brother, the siblings would wade into the ocean with surfboards in tow. Almost carefree, without the threat of bruised ribs on Billy’s mind for a blissful three days.

Maxine surfed like she skated, smooth and calm and fast. Billy surfed like he did everything else, hard and rough and reckless, swerving through crowds and splashing white foam onto Max as she laughed. Their long hair plastered to their foreheads with seawater, lips stained red with cherry popsicles, sand caked feet. He and Max would sit on their boards with their feet dangling in the water, far out enough for the serenity of the ocean to sooth the open wounds of their home life. Not that Maxine ever had to deal with anything more than being a passive witness. Neil would never overtly hurt the daughter he always wanted, and Billy couldn’t help but resent her for that. Even with the rush of the ocean to calm the fire within him.

Billy would flirt with the girls in the popsicle stands, usually getting a free one if he flexed and winked enough. He’d fuck those girls every once and a while too, parade them through the living room to pacify his father. Max always liked the girls he brought over, but he thought she probably just wanted someone who wasn’t a complete asshole around. She would yell at him every time he switched girls. It never bothered him, the girls were always just covers so he could suck off his friends under the pier. 

 

Billy did everything like it was a fight. Sex, driving, flirting, living. Steve isn’t sure what to make of it. 

They meet at the quarry to chain smoke two weeks after the first night, on New Years Eve, long after the ball had dropped and the parties ended. Billy starts the night buzzed from the mystery punch at Carol’s, a nicked mickey resting in the cold sand as he tries to bring himself to black out territory. He almost expects the thunk of the bat when Steve joins him on their log. He passes the liquor and taps out a fresh cigarette for the other teen.

“Haven’t seen you at practice in a while,” Billy speaks first, cig hanging off his lips. 

“Didn’t feel like going,” the answer is gruff, tired, and followed by a long swig of whiskey.

“Not good enough for _King Steve_ anymore?” Billy leers, determined to push the other boy’s buttons.

“Why are you such an ass all the time?” There’s fire behind Harrington’s teeth, intensified by the burn of alcohol. 

“Fuck off, pretty boy,” he says as he snatches the mickey back, “You’re the one who chose to sit with me. What’s the matter? Couldn’t stay away? Was it my fists or my dick that made you come crawling back?” His speech is slurred, lazy. His smile is wicked, sharp, begging Steve to throw the first punch. 

Harrington instead takes a long drag of his cigarette. “The sun is going to come up soon.” He looks like he’s gritting his teeth and fighting the urge to get physical. 

A light dusting of snow begins to fall around them as Billy watches Harrington’s jaw twitch. Large flakes catch in Harrington’s hair, melting on his pink nose. Billy can’t stand how it makes Steve even prettier. 

“The sun’s not the only thing coming up,” Billy lets out a barking laugh, too drunk to miss that opportunity, even if it's a lot heavier flirting than usual.

“Are you fucking coming onto me?” Harrington growls, hands in his hair, thankful for the whiskey and darkness to cover the flush of his cheeks. 

“Nah, but I could be,” Billy slurs with a wink, unsure if the other boy could even see it through the heavy night. “Just kidding,” he says when Harrington turns away and grabs his stupid bat, “Don’t worry, pretty boy, I’m no fag.”

He’s lying through his teeth and he knows it. He wonders if Harrington knows it too. It’s not like he really tries to hide it. He only hides enough so the guys at school and his dad can think he just really cares about his look, but he puts his earing in and leers in a way that those who know, know. It’s not like he hasn’t gotten any dick in Hawkins. People just don’t need to know. Especially not Harrington. It’s too fun to fuck with Harrington.

Billy doesn’t notice how Harrington flinches when he says fag. 

“You’re such an ass, Hargrove.” 

“Original, Harrington.”

Billy’s leather jacket doesn’t shut the chill in the air as well as he’d hoped, especially now that it’s snowing. The rough sand under his boots is cold and snow is accumulating on it. As streaks of pink peak over the trees, Billy wishes he was back in Cali where he could sleep on the beach and have warm sun wake him on mornings like this. Not the pathetic excuse for a beach that was the quarry. There isn’t anything that he doesn’t miss about Cali. Even the shitty things seem like paradise now that he’s stuck in Hawkins. He doesn’t think about it, because if he does his chest constricts and his stomach ties in tight knots and he can’t _breathe._

He broke his surfboard the day after they got to Hawkins. It had been propped against his wall, mocking him. So he punched it until his knuckles were raw and bloody and he’d never be able to ride the stupid thing again. It only made his chest hurt more.

He really hates Hawkins, Indiana.

They chainsmoke until Billy has to pick up Max from the Wheeler’s. Her little friends had a New Year’s party.

“Hey, Hargrove,” Harrington says as Billy reaches for the door of his Camaro, “You got a New Year’s resolution?”

“No,” Billy responds as he leaves, even though its a fucking lie. But he wasn’t about to say that he wanted to make people hate him a little less to Steve Fucking Harrington. Especially when one of those people was Steve Fucking Harrington.

 

Billy ignores Harrington when they both reach the Wheeler’s house. Which was bizarre, it’s not like Steve’s got any siblings to pick up. He pretends not to see Harrington stare at the purpling bruise that peaks out from the steep neckline of his mostly unbuttoned shirt. It’s not like the guy could have seen it at the quarry. It was much too dark, without even starlight to brighten the sky. Which, honestly, there was no way the accidental meetings would've happened if it wasn’t dark. If the boys couldn’t hide behind the blanket of night.

He’s got a hell of a hangover, which he isn’t really sure is a hangover, because can you get a hangover if you never went to sleep? All he knows is that his head is killing him and he is no longer near drunk enough to deal with the kids and the way that Harrington looks sadly at the Wheeler girl. 

He flirts with Mrs. Wheeler. Her reaction amuses him, and the disgusted noise Maxine makes makes it worth it. From the corner of his eye, he can see Harrington watch him with a look of disgust and something he can’t quite place. The curly haired boy (Dan? Dust? Derrick?) trails after Harrington like a puppy, spouting nonsense from the night before. 

Max glares at him on the way home. He ignores her too, and turns the music up as loud as it goes.

 

They meet in the woods, dark and ominous, rivalling Billy’s mood. She is young and odd, curly mop of hair bouncing as she walked. She was dressed younger than she is, overall straps hanging off one shoulder. 

“Hurt.” Is all she says, fingertips ghosting over the angry red fingerprints hidden by his shirt. 

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, jerking the injured limb out of her reach. Her hand catches his wrist, stronger than what she looked. 

“Friends call me El. Or Jane,” her eyes burn holes into his in the star light.

“Okay, El or Jane.” That earns him a giggle, “Now why don’t you let go of me? You don’t want to go grabbing strangers in the woods. I could be dangerous.”

“Not dangerous.”

Her cadence is as odd as the rest of her. “You don’t know that, kid. That’s bullshit.”

“Not. Dangerous,” she repeats sternly, eyes fierce. “Not like Papa.” 

El touches his bruises again, knowing without seeing them. Billy doesn’t know who Papa is, doesn’t know if this strange kid knows about the beat down that happened just before their meeting, doesn’t know if she has the same history as him. The look in her eye says she knows more about him than Billy would like.

“Too cold. Come home. Jim won’t mind,” she says, tugging his wrist and leading him to a cabin without allowing any protest.

“This is weird, kid,” Billy allows himself to be dragged along, mostly in shock, somewhat curious and not wanting to spend another night in his car. When El doesn’t respond, he rambles on, “Whatever you think you know, kid, you can’t tell anyone.”

The girl visibly perks up at that. “A secret,” she says, dragging him up the porch stairs of the cabin, “Friends keep secrets.”

“Yeah, sure, kid, friends keep secrets. You gotta keep this one for me.”

She nods seriously at him, then pulls him through the door and pushes him onto the couch before walking deeper into the cabin. “Jim!” She yells, “Found a friend in the woods!”

The chief of police walks out, because of course this weird girl lives with the chief of fucking police, just Billy’s luck, shaking his head, “Jane, I’ve told you before, you can’t bring every stray animal home. They’re wild animals not fri-” he cuts himself off abruptly as he catches sight of a teenager lounging on his couch. “-oh. You’re the Hargrove kid, right? What are you doing here?” His eyes are suspicious, glaring like he knows everything Billy’s ever done wrong. 

Before, Billy hadn’t even noticed the blareing pain around his left eye. But under the scrutinizing gaze of the chief, self-consciousness bubbles under his skin. “I don’t know. Ask her,” Billy says with a shrug that he hoped looked nonchalant as he nodded in El’s direction. 

El gives Hopper a look that speaks volumes more than the word she mutters, “Papa.” She glances quickly at Billy, mostly at the purpling bruise on his face, then gives Hopper a pointed look. “Sleepover.”

Hopper throws his hands in the air lightly in (mostly) mock exasperation after a minute or two of silent communication with El. “Look,” he addresses Billy now, “I don’t know what happened to your face, and I don’t think you would tell me if I asked, but Jane wants you to stay. So if you want, the couch is yours for the night. But one funny move and you’re out in the cold.” El slaps his arm at this, “Don’t think for a second that I don’t know who you are.”

Hop glances back to El, “And I just adopted Jane, here, and it's still not all figured out yet, so don’t talk about her.” The please is silent.

Jane pipes up from behind him, “Friends keep secrets!”

Billy just nods, unsure of what he’s supposed to do in a situation like this. But if it keeps him from sleeping in his cold car another night, he’ll accept the weirdness. Plus, the weird kid gets him. She looks at him and just understands. Understands in a way that no one else does.

He falls asleep to the low hum of the television and wakes to the syrupy scent of Eggos. 

El stares him down as he eats waffles with his hands. She copies the way he picks them up when Hopper isn’t looking, giggling to herself. He swipes the bacon from her plate and she retaliates by grabbing one of his Eggos when the chief has his back turned. 

Hopper drives him back to his car, parked at the quarry, in time to pick up Max for school. 

“Hey, kid,” he says after a short and mostly silent ride as Billy steps out of the car, “I know what you’ve done. Who you are. But Jane seems to like you, so you must have some potential. Come around next time he gets violent. I don’t want you sleeping in a car.”

Billy just gapes at him from the other side of the door. 

“But if you slip up, if anything happens to any of those kids, it won’t be Steve trying to beat your ass next time.”

That seems more like what Billy was used to. He nods curtly and slips into his Camaro, knowing he’s supposed to thank the guy but not really able to give enough of a fuck after the threat. 

“You’re welcome,” Hop yells as he drives off, laughing. It takes everything in Billy not to flip him the bird.


	2. Chapter 2

Harrington comes back to basketball after the break. Billy pretends it has something to do with him. He goads and presses the other teen on the court and avoids him after. He hates Harrington, most of the time. Hates him and his pretty straight face and his lack of caring for the meaningless bullshit that is high school. 

 

Billy Hargrove is not the type of guy to befriend lost, broken kids. He is hard edges and anger issues, cigarette smoke and loud metal music. He is not the guy who waits in the cold woods with a fresh bruise splayed over his ribs, wondering if a young teenager will come find him again. But he does it anyway.

Billy blatantly refuses to walk up and knock on the chief of police’s door, opting instead for waiting in the woods where he had been before. She finds him quickly, like he knew she would. He doesn’t have any clue how she does it, but for some reason he knew that she could. It was like a gut feeling. 

She understood in a way that no one else had, and that made his stomach roll uncomfortably. She reminded him too much of himself, he could see the fire behind her eyes that mirrored his own, she was stubborn and angry. But she was soft around the edges in a way Billy knew he was far to broken and jagged to return to. The light in her eyes and bounce in her step and the way she smiled at him as they walked back to the cabin almost made him want to try, though.

They watch cartoons that they are both too old for and she sneaks candy from the cupboard when Hopper isn’t looking. Billy won’t say that he’s happy, but he feels like maybe he isn’t as angry.

Billy is hard edges and anger issues, bloody fists and fire. Hopper drags an old punching bag out the third time he stays the night that month, when he showed up with fire behind his teeth and rage in his eyes, itching for a fight that he wasn’t going to find.

“Here,” he says, hanging the bag up outside a back window in a spot mostly protected from the snow, “This helped when I needed it.” Hopper doesn’t explain further than that, and Billy really doesn’t want him to. It would be forced and unnatural, and Billy already has one messed up father figure, he doesn’t want to deal with another. 

So Billy hits the punching bag like his life depends on it, and maybe it does. He hits until his knuckles bleed, smearing bright red on the black plastic. He hits until El comes out and puts her hand on his arm and the anger finally leaves him. He deflates as Hopper cleans the tears in his skin. The older man doesn’t say anything as he does it, and Billy bitterly allows it to happen.

Billy falls asleep with his arm draped over El’s shoulder as she watches the television too intently. 

She’s always too excited to see him. He can’t stand it, can’t stand that she thinks he’s a good person when he so obviously isn’t. 

 

The next time they meet at the quarry, they don’t address the elephant in the room. Or, well, the outside. Neither boy asks the other how many nights he comes out, wondering if the other will be there. It is three weeks into the new year, cold and blustery. Billy has only spent three other late nights there in the past weeks, usually leaving by midnight after Harrington doesn’t show and he’s had his fill of being alone. 

Billy has a love/hate relationship with being alone. He can’t stand other people, their stupid lives and everything they try and make him care about. But the quiet is worse. He hates the thoughts that consume him when there's nothing else, but he’s always been a sucker for punishment.

Billy Hargrove rarely lets himself slow down. He always has to be doing something, feeding some addiction. If he isn’t drinking or smoking or working out or fighting, his hands get restless and the voice that tells him he’ll never be good enough echos in his head. So he drowns it out with his vices. Doesn’t let the his world calm down until it’s the middle on the night and he can’t bring himself to care about anything.

Harrington passes him a bottle of fancy, expensive liquor that Billy doubts he’ll ever have the money to afford. He doesn’t understand drinking for the taste. He drinks to get drunk, to numb everything around him.

But hell if that liquor doesn’t go down smooth.

“Got expensive taste, Harrington?” He questions with a sneer, not looking at the other boy.

“Shut up, dickhead. It’s from my dad’s office.”

“Won’t he miss it?” Billy thinks of how he would get beat if he got caught stealing from Neil.

“He doesn’t care.”

Billy responds with a long pull of the scotch. “Lucky you.”

“Shut up.” Billy pretends not to hear the melancholy behind the casual tone Steve is trying for.

The opportunity presents itself so well Billy just has to take it, even if he is decidedly not flirting with Steve Fucking Harrington. As their hands meet on the bottle he whispers, low and sultry, “Make me, pretty boy.”

Billy kind of wishes it was the day so he could see the bright red flush that he knows spreads across Harrington’s cheeks. The bottle is ripped from his fingers, and Steve takes a long drink. Billy likes to think that he’s trying to get himself under control.

“Thought you weren’t a fag,” Steve says through gritted teeth. It sounds like he’s trying for relaxed, but it doesn’t work.

Billy just barks a harsh laugh in response and takes a long drag from his cigarette. He grins, heat behind his sharp teeth, even though Steve probably can’t see. His body burns from the inside out even when he’s calm, threatening to spill fire onto everyone around him. He leaves angry burns in his wake, painful reminders of how much he hates everyone, including himself.

The burn of the alcohol in his belly keeps him warm too, even as his fingertips go numb.

“There’s monsters in the woods,” Steve says when he’s good and drunk, “There’s monsters, and I’ve seen them.”

Billy takes another sip, “There’s monsters out here, too, princess.” 

He doesn’t ask what Steve means, doesn’t mention the odd girl he met in the woods, doesn’t mention that the biggest monster he knows sits at home, likely drunk on the couch.

Steve doesn’t explain what he means, doesn’t mention the nightmares induced by the demodogs, doesn’t mention his fear of pools.

Neither boy explains why they are sitting under the stars at the quarry on a school night.

“Don’t call me princess,” Steve says finally, sounding exhausted.

“Not gonna happen, princess.”

Steve hits him, open handedly, soft and almost playful. He doesn’t catch Billy’s flinch, a little too strong for the what he did. 

The darkness give Steve courage. “Max complains about you less. Since Christmas.”

Billy nods dumbly, even though Steve can only barely make out the motion. He lights a fresh cigarette. At this pace, he’s been going through a pack every few days. 

“Why do you hate her so much?” He continues, emboldened by the lack of response.

“Don’t go there, Harrington.” The warning comes out as a growl, deep and firey. 

Steve takes another swig of the scotch, “You ever gonna apologize to me for beating my face in? You didn’t get me a skateboard for Christmas. And you broke my nose, dickhead.”

“You’re drunk.” 

“Am not.”

They were both past the point of tipsy. 

“I think I’d forgive you,” Steve says slowly, trying not to slur his words. “If you apologized. I think. Maybe. You’d have to get me a skateboard, too, though. Make it fair.”

Billy is sure that Steve won’t remember this in the morning, but it’s enticing anyway. He’s not even sure if he wants or needs Harrington’s forgiveness, but he thinks maybe if it gets him a few more nights like this it could be worth it.

“Okay, pretty boy, a skateboard it is.”

Steve leans on his shoulder and Billy lets him. He doesn’t think about what anything means, especially how nice it is to have contact with someone who isn’t trying to hurt him and he isn’t trying to hurt.

They sleep in Harrington’s beemer with the heat on, and Billy disappears into the night a few hours later when he is sober enough to make it through his window without waking Neil. He definitely does not stare at Steve’s drunken, sleeping face before he leaves.

 

The next day after school Billy beats the shit out of the punching bag hung up for him at the cabin. El wants him to stay the night, probably so she can steal his Eggos in the morning, but he’s already spent too many nights away from home and Neil could start getting suspicious. The weird kid is really starting to grow on him, though.

 

Billy picks Max up from the arcade three days after the night at the quarry. It’s sleeting, cold and angry, like a punishment for the previous day’s decent weather. He can’t go to the quarry tonight because of it, and it pisses him off. 

Steve stares at him from his beemer, thick eyebrows furrowed. Billy takes it as an invitation and saunters over. His tight blue jeans make his ass look fantastic and he knows it. He leans on Harrington’s car, rapping on the window to get him to roll it down. Once he does, Billy practically leans into the car, his shirt open wide even as he gets pelted with freezing rain. His necklace clinks lightly against the window sill and he watches as Steve’s eyes get stuck on it.

Billy Hargrove is hard edges and fire and too much cologne, he is not someone who apologizes.

“My eyes are up here, Harrington,” he’s goading and he knows it. Everything is easier when everyone is mad. Communication is better when it’s with fists.

“What do you want, Hargrove?” Steve spits, making Billy think twice.

“Got you something,” the blond pulls a skateboard from behind his back. It’s nothing spectacular, the cheapest one he could find on short notice. It’s obviously used, the deep scratches in the wood could tell many stories. He shoves the deck through the open window carelessly, not minding if he hits the other boy in the process. 

“A skateboard?” Steve’s eyebrows furrow deeper.

“Yep,” Billy pops the p, mentally punching himself because of course Steve doesn’t remember. He licks his lips and watches understanding wash over the other boy’s face.

“Oh. A skateboard.”

“You already said that, amigo.” 

“I guess I didn’t think you’d remember something like that.” Steve glances back and forth between the skateboard and Billy. The latter can pretty much see the wheels turning in his head. “I don’t want a skateboard.”

Billy tries his best not to feel hurt at the rejection. He doesn’t let the change in his mood show, obviously, as he straightens up and slaps the roof of the car. “Message received,” he says with his usual swagger, tone uncaring.

“Hey!” Steve shouts as Billy starts walking away, “I didn’t mean it like that, asshole. I just meant,” he pauses as Billy turns back around, “I literally do not have any reason to have a skateboard.”

Billy snorts, “Give it to one of your little pre-teen friends, I don’t give a shit.” He catches sight of Max and her ragtag group of friends filing out of the arcade so this time he really does walk away, soaked to the bone and freezing, but a little warmer on the inside.

“I accept, by the way,” Harrington yells after him. Billy flips him off, but it has little malice behind it. “You’re not forgiven, though!” Billy adds his other finger in response. 

It’s easy to hear Dustin screech about how “It’s Billy, Steve! He beat your damn face in!” and question the other teen’s sanity when he reaches the Beemer.Billy isn’t sure what’s funnier, King Steve getting scolded by a fourteen year old or the fact that Steve is driving said fourteen year old around and not complaining about it much. Definitely the scolding, actually.

On the ride home, Max notices his good mood. Or decent mood, he’s not sure he’s ever in a good mood. Only manic or angry.

“Why were you talking to Steve?” She inquires suspiciously. 

“None of your fuckin’ buisiness.” The response lacks any heat. 

Max smiles like she doesn’t think he can see.

For a minute, Billy doesn’t feel like the fire inside him is burning its way out.


	3. Chapter 3

The skateboard marks a sort of truce between Billy and Steve.

They aren’t friends, but they aren’t enemies anymore, either.

They don’t avoid each other after practice and Billy grins when Steve looks at him in the hall. It’s a comfortable discomfort, and Billy’s not quite sure how that works.

 

Billy shows up at the cabin a week later, bruised and battered, earlier than usual. He had dropped Maxine off at the arcade and was told he didn’t need to pick her up because of some dinner she was going to with her nerdy friends. He couldn’t really care less, but his dad seemed to mind since he got a fist to the ribs a slice from a ring in his scalp for letting Maxine out of his sight and talking back.

He’s so pissed he doesn’t notice the extra cars in the driveway. Around back, he throws a few punches at the bag to let off some of the steam before seeing El. That’s where he notices the beat up skateboard resting on the side of the house. The same one that he gave Harrington. Which is odd, because how the hell would Steve know El? 

The knuckles on his right hand have opened and blood beads up on them. He lets himself in the back door with the spare key Hopper gave him the fourth time he stayed the night. As much as the older man complained about having an angry, beat up teen around eating all his food and getting blood on the couch all the time, Billy was under the impression that the chief kind of liked him. Exhibit A: the punching bag, B: the spare key.

“Hey, El,” he yells as he steps over the threshold, “How d’you know Harring-.” Billy freezes as eleven pairs of eyes turn to him in the very cramped cabin. All conversation screeches to a halt, everyone’s (save for El and Hopper) jaws slack as they stare at him, frozen in the doorway.

His sister and Lucas are huddled on the floor in a corner, with three other boys and El surrounding them. Harrington, the Wheeler girl, and the Byers boy are shoved on the couch, the former looking like he’s trying to stay as far away as possible. Hop and some lady Billy’s never seen before are in the kitchen, Hop’s hand resting soothingly on the woman’s frozen arm.

Maxine’s brows furrow and she says, “Billy?” at the same time that El yells, “Bad Boy!”

She had given him that nickname on the second night after hearing in on the TV in reference to some punk that reminded her of her sister. He had just gone with it, as he never really had a nickname before. Unless you count “faggot” from his father.

El scrambles to her feet, much to the bewilderment of the dark haired boy sitting next to her.

“And that’s my cue,” Billy says, finally becoming unstuck as movement flutters around him. It’s easy to spin around and slam the door behind him. He figures he’ll sleep at the quarry again tonight. And confront his sister about it the next day, because how the fuck does she know El?

When the door opens behind him a minute later, it isn’t El like he’s expecting. It’s the woman.

“I was wondering why Hop had taken up boxing,” she says, looking at Billy and his fist raised to the bag, “But now I see. It was for you.”

He just stares at her, because this was not the way the night was supposed to go. All he really wanted was to lounge on the couch with his surrogate sister and not have to deal with anything for a night. No Harrington, no father, no Max hating him, no nothing except bad TV and a mediocre couch. And that was ruined, the shitty icing on the shitty day. With another surge of anger, he gives the bad a swift punch before dropping his hand.

“I’m Joyce,” the woman says as she lights a cigarette he didn’t see her pull out. She offers him one like he hadn’t just thrown a punch. 

He takes it with a gruff sound of thanks.

“I’m Jonathan and Will’s mom,” Joyce continues with a puff of smoke, “I’ve heard about you. From Jonathan.”

Billy doubts he wants to hear whatever she’d heard. Instead of saying that, he smokes his bummed cigarette.

“You weren’t expecting us,” she muses, sitting on the step and motioning for Billy to join her. He does, if only because he hasn’t had a nice mother figure talk to him since his own died. 

“You weren’t expecting me,” he says, “Except El. She probably was.”

“She does that.”

They smoke in silence for another minute. Billy doesn’t flirt with her like he would with Mrs. Wheeler. It feels wrong. 

“I came out here to say that if El likes you, you must not be as bad as the kids thought. And if you want to join us for dinner, you can. But that doesn’t mean I trust you, or that anyone here forgives you. I know El would like it if you did. Join us, that is,” she looks at him with eyes that know to much, “And I hear you owe me a plate,” she says it with a firm smile, because she knows what broken boys look like, what broken boys with bad home lives do. And she knows what it looks like when broken boys might not want to be broken boys anymore.

Billy can’t help the harsh laugh that explodes out of him at that. He thinks he’s probably supposed to feel bad about that, but the whole situation is so absurd he can’t bring himself to care. “I guess I do owe you a plate, Mrs. Byers.”

“It’s Joyce,” she says before leading the way back into the warm, cramped cabin.

Billy ends up on the floor sandwiched between the only two people willing to sit next to him, El and Steve. Though he’s a little surprised the latter is willing.

It’s awkward until they’ve all gotten food and the younger teens start bickering and babbling about something stupid. Max side eyes him the whole time, suspicious.

Billy doesn’t know how to exist in this context. So many eyes on him in a way that he isn’t used to. He’s used to stares of amazement or fear, burning anger or hopeful lust. Not random looks of confusion and even worse, the occasional pity from Joyce. Pity makes his chest burn hot with rage and his fists close tightly, opening the scrapes there every time.

Dried blood stained his knuckles and crusts in his hair on the side of his head. No one says anything about it, and frankly, Billy had forgotten. Maxine’s eyes keep getting stuck on the red mixed with blond as she argues and laughs with her friends.

Billy scarfs down the food on his plate, then seconds. He could probably go for thirds, but he doesn’t. This happens to him a lot. Outside of being a constantly starving teenage boy, he smokes so many cigarettes he forgets to eat and when his father hits him it usually makes him sick to his stomach and when he gets angry enough to taste blood food revolts him. So he forgets to eat, until he doesn’t. 

Steve stares at him, sometimes, watching the way he shovels food into his mouth like a starved animal. Billy ignores it, ignores Steve, because it’s easier that way. When their knees touch, he doesn’t move away. 

Eventually El ropes him into a conversation about how Max is going to teach her how to skateboard. 

He turns to Harrington, addressing him as he responds to El, “Is she now?” He grins wickedly at the other boy, sweeping his eyes over his uncomfortable face.

“Shut up, you were the one who told me to give it to, I quote, ‘one of your pre-teen friends’,” Harrington glares at him, “Stop, don’t lick your lips like that, dickbag.” Steve crosses his arms and rolls his eyes away from Billy, definitely not blushing.

Billy just laughs harshly and turns back to El, who is watching the interaction with narrowed eyes, trying to place whatever is happening. “Maxine here used to surf, too. She tell you that?” His demeanor changes on a dime with the person he talks to.

“Surf?”

Max pipes up at that from where she’s been observing skeptically, “Like skateboarding, but in the ocean. Billy used to, too,” She pauses, with a deep inhale before starting again cautiously, “He was always a lot better than me. Could do tricks and stuff.”

Billy’s surprised by the compliment, but unsurprised by the way she looks at him, daring him to say something mean. The look makes him want to, but he reigns in the desire. Being better and shit, right? Getting back to last summer.

“Weren’t half bad yourself, kid,” he says, still smirking. She looks at him with a glimmer in her eyes that he hasn’t really seen since the summer.

“Teach me to surf, too, Billy?” El asks.

“You can’t surf here, we’re in the middle of the fuckin’ country,” Billy responds bitterly, not really trying to stifle the heat behind his words.

“Language!” Hopper yells from his and Joyce’s spot in the kitchen. Billy flips him off, much to the amusement El. The eye roll and annoyed huff from the older man escapes Billy’s notice.

“You didn’t strike me as the surfer type.” It comes from Harrington, surprising the three talking.

“And what’s the surfer type, genius?” Billy’s words are sharp.

“I don’t know,” Steve looks flustered under Billy’s harsh gaze, his cheeks turning pink as he gulps and looks at the plate balanced in his lap, “Just not you, I guess.”

Another laugh booms out of Billy, “How’d you think I got this beachy, sexy, blond hair?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

One of Billy’s hands come to rest on the inside of Steve’s knee as he teases, “At least I don’t use Farrah Fawcett hair products.” His eyes flick to the absolutely ridiculously huge hair Steve sports, his tongue peaking out from behind sharp teeth.

“Dustin!”

“Dude, think about it, why would I spill your secret to this douchebag?” The curly haired kid is rolling his eyes as he says it, like Steve is the stupidest person he’s ever met for assuming it was him.

“Language!” A shout comes from the kitchen again.

“Sorry for saying ‘douchebag!’” Dustin yells back.

Hopper’s hand is rubbing his face as he mutters, “Why do I even bother?” and Joyce is laughing softly at him. It doesn’t escape Billy’s notice how the older woman looks at him, how she touches his bicep lightly as she laughs. He stores that knowledge to use against the chief later.

With his attention back on Steve, Billy’s hand slips a little higher, closer to the balanced plate as he whispers into his ear, “I’d recognize it anywhere, all the fuckable bitches in Cali use that hairspray.”

Steve practically rockets to his feet, empty plate clattering to the floor and cheeks flushed red. 

It was way too fun to get Steve riled up, either with anger or embarrassment. The brunet grabs his fallen plate and rips the one from Billy’s hands before stalking to the kitchen to wash them.

“I wasn’t done with that,” Billy calls casually. Steve flips him the bird behind his back and Maxine smacks him on one of his extended legs. 

“You’re a dick, Billy,” she glares, brows furrowed enough that the Sinclair kid touches her hand comfortingly.

“Correct.” Billy winks at her.

The night continues in semi-organized chaos, the younger teens eventually starting an absolutely ridiculous, complicated game of risk that they modify to be even more complicated. It leaves the older teenagers awkwardly left out, sitting around the couch in uncomfortable silence.

It’s Jonathan, surprisingly, who breaks it, “So Billy,” he gets the name out with only a minor grimace. Billy is everything about high school that Jonathan can stand. Loud, boisterous, popular, a bully. He’s annoying and angry and drinks to much and is a dick to his little sister. It goes against every instinct Jonathan has to talk to him. “How do you know El and the chief?” 

Billy doesn’t have to be able to read his mind to know he thinks the story probably involves illegal activities. Too bad he’s gotta disappoint.

“Got into a fight and El found me in the woods after. Brought me home like a stray. Begged the chief to keep me.” God, he really needed a smoke. His fingers itched for the pack in his jacket. 

Jonathan doesn’t have anything to say to that, so the group falls back into awkward silence, punctuated by Nancy's angry glares. Before too long, Joyce announces that they have to go, much to the protest of the kids. The Byers and Wheelers say a long goodbye that ends with El getting a kiss on the cheek from the Wheeler boy and Hopper groaning loudly. Billy stores that information for later, too. 

While everyone else is occupied, Maxine catches Billy’s attention. “Are you coming home tonight?” She asks, pretending not to care, even if the indifference doesn’t reach her big blue eyes. 

“Doubt it. You know he needs time to cool off.”

She looks around, checking to see if anyone is paying attention to the siblings. “I’m glad you found some place to stay, dickhead, even if it is with my friend.”

“You’re not supposed to call me a dickhead when you’re trying to be nice.”

“I’m not trying to be nice.” She bounces over to the others, confirming her ride home with Steve.

“Billy’s not driving you?” The brunet asks, staring at Billy with a strange look on his face. His brow furrows as he stares, like he’s thinking really hard about something. His eyes flit from the blood still stuck in Billy’s hair too the battered knuckles of his right hand. The twist in Billy’s gut is annoying and doesn’t go away until Steve’s stare does too.

Max shakes her head, refusing to elaborate. Eventually, Harrington just accepts it and the party is out the door. They’re only gone for a second before Steve returns, alone. “You’re blocking me in,” he says to Billy, with that look back on his face. Billy hates that he’s cute when he thinks. Which he doesn’t seem to do often, so at least there’s that.

After grabbing his smokes and sticking one in his mouth, Billy follows the other teen. He holds the crumpled pack out, offering one. Steve takes it but holds the cigarette out, wordlessly asking for a light. They both lean into the little flame from Billy’s zippo, eyes connecting. The contact is deep and intense, like Harrington is staring into Billy’s soul. It makes the younger teen squirm. 

The moment is over before it really even begins. 

They smoke in silence for a minute, before Steve asks, “Why aren’t you going to home tonight?”

There’s no way Billy is answering that, so he responds with his own question. “Why are your only friends thirteen year olds?” Its harsh and barbed, bristled like the boy who said it.

“Fuck you.”

Billy takes a long drag. Steve sighs.

“Meet me at the quarry on Sunday?” Steve asks around his cigarette.

“What’s in it for me?” Billy responds, self-serving as always, even if he would’ve gone without an incentive. Steve was enough of an incentive.

“Something harder than cigarettes.”

Billy nods curtly then moves the Camaro to let Steve and the kids out of the driveway. The woods call to him, so he wanders through them until he’s cold and tired enough to join El on the couch. He wonders what his life has become as he falls asleep. Since when did ‘bad boy’ Billy Hargrove hang out with a thirteen year old girl and care if Steve Fucking Harrington thought he was an okay person? Since when did he walk in the woods and not want to burn it all down? He still wants to burn Hawkins to the ground, just maybe not the sacred spot of woods around the cabin.

Billy Hargrove is sharp teeth and a sharper tongue, hot flames behind blue eyes. 

He falls asleep with an arm around El. She gently cleans the blood from his hair before he does, but he pretends to have already fallen asleep.

 

He spends the following night, Saturday, partying at some nameless girl’s house. He drinks too much and is completely in his element, the loud music booming in his skull, the stupid Hawkins girls vying for his attention, the boys staring at him jealously. He does a few keg stands and comes close to beating his record. 

 

On Sunday he sneaks out as soon as Neil retires to his room, climbing silently out of his window and rolling backwards down the driveway. The night is unusually warm for January, melted snow from the day barely refreezing. The stars above him twinkle lightly in the clear sky. Billy had never seen stars in the same way before Hawkins, they had always been polluted by big city lights. He didn’t know if he liked it or hated it. All he knew is that the vast, twinkling sky made him lonely in a way you couldn’t be in a big city.

It takes two hours for Steve to arrive, rosy cheeked and soft. As soon as he’s out of his car, he pulls out a blunt. 

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Billy laughs, sniffing the weed as he plucks it from the other boy’s fingers.

They smoke most of the blunt in silence, resting against the hood of Steve’s Beemer. It’s good shit, and Billy lets it rush to his head until his vision gets fuzzy. He doesn’t think about Steve’s lips and how they had just been touching the blunt as he inhales. 

The metal of the car is cold on his ass, seeping through his jeans. Steve is warm by his side, even if he can’t quite feel it. He imagines he does.

When he closes his eyes, Billy’s world spins.

Billy has a complicated relationship with weed. While it’s nice to not feel angry for the few hours the high lasts, he loses who he is. He doesn’t know who he is without his anger. It’s been there for so long, he doesn’t think his personality could handle it to leave. He knows he will never really stop being angry, even when he is back in California, away from his shitty dad and his pathetic, broken childhood. He knows that the rage he feels right now will always be a part of Billy Hargrove, even if eventually becomes the small flame of a match instead of the burning chaos of a house fire.

So he smokes the weed in front of him, even if it makes him feel lost. Because feeling lost is sometimes the only way to be found. Sometimes you have to lose the biggest part of yourself before you can know who you are. 

He smokes and he looks at the curve of Steve’s relaxed smile, and pretends for a second that he could fall in love with the boy next to him. Pretends that he wants to.

Just because Steve had a nice ass and a pretty face did not mean Billy wanted to love him. At this point, Billy doubted he was even capable of loving someone else. He didn’t even really like himself, for God’s sake.

Plus, he still really couldn’t stand the guy most of the time, even if he liked to push all his buttons. Or, at least he told himself that.

As the blunt dies down, smoked away, Steve finally breaks the silence, “I’m freezing my balls off out here, get in the car.”

They climb into the Beemer, and Steve immediately slides the sunroof visor back, exposing the stars. He rolls his seat back until he is practically lying down, and Billy copies him.

“Of course your car has a fucking sunroof.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re rich. Rich kid with a fancy car and a fancy sunroof.”

“Shut up. You aren’t even decent when you’re high.”

“Nope,” Billy pops the p, lying back with his arm resting behind his head.

The stars feel like they are going to fall out of the sky like snow.

The silence is comfortable, starkly different from the lack of conversation in the cabin those couple days before. For once, Billy doesn’t feel like he is going to burst out of his skin.

Nothing about Steve Harrington makes Billy think of a boy who used to be called King Steve. Especially not when he’s around the kids. 

He’d heard lots of talk about Steve when he’s first come to Hawkins, sniffing out whoever he had to dethrone. Billy knew he was hot, badass with striking blue eyes and soft blond curls. He knew he was mysterious enough to be intriguing, exotic to the teens of a small town. He knew his asshole-ish personality would draw people to him, and those he pushed away would continue to talk. No attention was bad attention to Billy Hargrove. 

But he hadn’t expected it would be so easy to boost King Steve from his throne. He had expected a little challenge. 

Steve’s uncaring behaviour just made him more intriguing. Until he found him at the Byers’ house, hiding Max, then he just wanted to kill him. And he almost did.

After a while, Steve breaks him out of his stoned daze, “You haven’t apologised yet.”

“I probably won’t.”

“Dickhead.”

It takes him a long time and a few deep breaths, hyping himself up to do something he never did. But Max’s words bounce around his head. ‘You’re just like him.’ So eventually, he works himself up enough to admit it. “Sorry,” Billy almost whispers, looking pointedly up at the stars, “For beating your face in so bad. Not for doing it. But going so hard.”

“What was that?” Steve teases, “Didn’t hear you.”

“Fuck off. I’m not saying it again. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine,” Steve says, and when Billy finally looks over at him, he’s met with big brown eyes in the dark, pupils blown wide, staring at him intently, “I’ll take it, asshole.”

Billy thinks about how easy it would be to kiss him like this, but he nips that idea quickly in the bud. Billy doesn’t kiss softly in the starlight. He only fucks with a purpose, hard and angry like the rest of him. 

He is harsh lips and harsher teeth, anger and the fire of the hot sun. He doesn’t love, even if he’s high.

So he turns back to the sky, allowing the silence to crash over him, so loud it’s deafening.

“El likes you,” Steve says, like it should be surprising.

“You jealous?”

“Why would I be jealous?”

“Well, dumbass, you were hiding my little sister in a creepy ass house in the middle of the night. Thought you might like ‘em young,” Billy’s being mean again, now, and he knows it. As soon as anyone gets near him, he has to put them in their place. Make them either hate him, fawn over him, or be jealous of him. That’s what he knew how to deal with. In the history of his life, only three people really got to know the real him. And that was enough, even if he would never speak to two of them again.

“You know that wasn’t what was happening. Don’t ever fucking say that to me again,” Steve’s voice was raw with sudden anger.

“Wanna hit me, princess? I’ll give you a freebie,” Billy goads, not turning to look at the other boy.

“No. I’m not fighting you right now.”

“Too bad, it’d be fun to beat your ass again.”

“Why are you doing this? As soon as I think maybe you aren’t the worst person in Hawkins, you try to prove me wrong.”

Billy doesn’t respond, because truthfully he doesn’t really know. He knows why he doesn’t want to let anyone close to him, but he doesn’t know why he has to push them away so violently.

“Thought so,” Steve sighs heavily. 

Eventually, Steve drifts off and Billy slips away into the night. He turns the car off before he goes, so Steve doesn’t wake up without gas.


	4. Chapter 4

“Please, kid,  _ Children of the Corn? _ Really? That movie is an insult to King.”

Dustin sputters at Billy, looking shocked at the entrance into his conversation. 

“Did you even read the book? You wouldn’t be praising that shit so highly if you did,” Billy continues casually, an eyebrow raised at the younger boy.

“You can read?” Dustin asks, incredulous.

“Oh my fucking god, you little shit, I’m not doing this.”

Steve Harrington is pretty sure he’s just walked into a different dimension. One that is not as absolutely terrifying as the upside down, but probably just as weird.

Billy Hargrove is willingly talking to Dustin. His Dustin. The curly haired nerd who accidentally raised a demodog and plays Dungeons and Dragons. What the fuck.

He chances a glance at Max, who is sitting on Hopper’s couch looking just as shocked as Steve feels. She looks back at him and shrugs. 

It’s been four weeks since the first dinner at the cabin, and Billy has started to join them when it takes place there instead of the Byers’. Steve has no clue what is going on with that. Last he’d heard (from Max, of course, he and Billy never really talked about shit like that when they hung out by the quarry) Billy had apologised in a strange, threatening way to Lucas at the beginning of February. 

After that, Lucas has been wary but accepting of the older teen, Max almost looks at him like she likes him, Mike full on ignores him, Will watches him with an intense curiosity that Steve doesn’t understand, and Dustin still loudly proclaims his hatred. But things have settled into a weird routine. 

He and Billy have spent more nights than he cares to count at the quarry, sometimes getting drunk or high, sometimes just watching the stars and half frozen water. Steve hates how its so much easier to sleep after being with Billy. How on the nights he falls asleep in his Beemer with Billy at his side, he actually gets a good few hours of sleep before waking up alone, cramped, and freezing cold. They always have the car on when Steve falls asleep, and he always wake up to it off. Stupid Billy Hargrove and his random, occasional acts of bizarre kindness. He tries not to wish Billy would be there when he wakes up. Even if he can’t stand the guy, it’s be easier to keep the terror and nightmares away if someone slept uncomfortably next to him.

Steve tries to weasel the reason Billy’s been hanging around El out of her, but she won’t tell him. Because she is stubborn as hell, like always. He tries Max too, but she shuts him down before the words are even fully out of his mouth.

“You don’t want to know, Harrington,” she had said, sounding disturbingly like her older brother. 

As they spend more time together, Steve begins to hate Billy a little less. Every time he sees Billy with a black eye or those big, boot shaped bruises that show in the showers, he hates him less. He starts to just feel bad for the guy, even if he pisses him off to no end.

It’s easy to put two and two together and assume Billy has a pretty shitty home life. He doesn’t bring it up when they are at the quarry, drinking or smoking or just generally trying to outrun their demons.

So even if it seems like he’s in a third dimension when he sees Dustin argue with Billy, he just messes up Dustin’s already disastrous hair and tells him to chill out with whatever nerd shit he’s talking about.

Dustin looks up at him, “Hargrove  _ reads, _ Steve, can you believe that?”

Steve laughs and looks at the older teen when he says, “No, Dustin, no I can’t.” Even though he can. Another thing that isn’t that hard to tell once you get to know Billy, is how smart the guy actually is. He might dick around in class and make fun of anyone who looks like they give a shit about school, but when he’s called on he can answer, especially in English Lit. He just gets writing in a way that Steve doesn’t, can’t, will never be able to. And Steve’s heard that Billy takes more advanced classes than even Nancy. Yet the guy never seems to study. Steve really, really hates that.

It’s hard not to be jealous of that. Steve has found himself jealous of everyone whose never struggled in school, especially when it’s all he can do to just not fail stupid English Lit. But that’s a secret that he keeps to himself, not even Nancy really knew how hard he struggles.

Billy rolls his eyes at the two of them, grumbling under his breath. Steve watches as he stalks to the kitchen to join El who is making ‘dessert’ from a lot of Eggos and way too much chocolate syrup. Steve’s gaze most definitely does  _ not _ drift down to that ass cupped tightly by pale blue jeans.

Steve’s known he’s got a thing for guys for a few years now, after a pool party he’d had where he and Tommy got wasted and wrestled in the dewey grass and Steve had wanted nothing more than to kiss him. He hadn’t, of course, but that didn’t make the realisation any less mind boggling. So he mostly just shoved that part of himself deep down. But Billy Fucking Hargrove had to show up and push him around and wear too tight jeans and look like he could kill him, and for some reason he liked people with curly hair that pushed him around. So he ogled his ass sometimes and never dared doing anything past that. Truthfully, Steve really didn’t ever plan on doing anything with another guy in his life. It was so much easier to just be  _ normal _ and fuck girls and get his stupid, big heart broken by them. 

“You are talking to the guy who asked me what animal the fuckin’ pink panther is, Henderson, we can’t all be as stupid as Harrington,” Billy shoots over his shoulder with a maniacal cackle.

“Hey!” Steve can feel his cheeks burning at the… insult? “Not fair, that was when I was h-” he cuts himself short at the disapproving look that Hop gives him, daring him to admit to illegal activity in front of the chief of police. “Nevermind,” he says quickly before turning away from Dustin, who is laughing hysterically.

“The pink panther?” He tries to say between hoots of laughter, “Really Steve?”

“Shut up, you’re all assholes.”

 

\--

 

The woods call to him in a way the ocean never did, a way it couldn’t. The woods called to him with rage and fire in the freezing cold, the trees fueled his anger as they dripped snow onto his shoulders.

Billy Hargrove walks alone down the side of the road, his keys firmly in the pocket of his father. If he doesn’t go back to get them, there’s no way he can make it anywhere to stay the night. His fingers burn in the cold, stuffed deep in the pockets of his warmest leather jacket.

When he’s roughly a mile from home, the lights of a car illuminate his silhouette from behind. Billy isn’t expecting anything other than for the car to pass by. It doesn’t.

Steve rolls down the passenger side window, leaning over the center council. “Get in,” he shouts to Billy, “You’re gonna freeze your ass off.” Which wasn’t true, it was far from the coldest night Billy’s spent outside in Hawkins. Hell, most nights he and Steve spent at the quarry were colder than this.

“No.” Billy doesn’t look into the car at Steve, still walking.

“What?”

Steve throws the car in park and is out of the car in seconds. Billy’s trying his hardest to ignore the other teen.

“What’s your problem?” Steve asks, approaching Billy, “I’m trying to be a good fucking guy here.”

“Don’t bother, pretty boy,” Billy waves him off, attempting to get around him but getting cut off. Anger rises in his throat like bile.

“Seriously, what the fuck, Hargrove, get in the fucking car before you get hypothermia or some shit.” Harrington is getting in his face just a little bit and it makes him want to punch that stupid fucking concerned look off his stupid pretty face.

“Get the fuck out of my way, Harrington,” he growls, stepping closer and drawing himself up to be intimidating. The stupid guy doesn’t get the message.

“No, you’re being stupid. I’m not getting the blame if you fucking die out here or something stupid like that.” Harrington tries to make himself look bigger, tougher, but it just makes him look pathetic. It reminds Billy of how easy it would be to bowl him right over. He can’t stand the pity flowing off Steve in waves.

“Getting pretty fucking clingy, pretty boy, is that why the Wheeler bitch left you?” It’s a low blow. Billy doesn’t even hate Nancy, he’s just trying to get under Steve’s skin so that he’ll either start a fight or leave him alone.

Billy revels in how Steve's shoulders slump minutely, hurt. The purpose was to wound, after all. “Don’t fucking talk about her like that,” Harrington spits, getting angrier with everything Billy says.

“Wow, Harrington, stuck on her even as she whores herself out to the creep?” Billy only feels a tiny bit guilty calling Jonathan a creep, the dude’s not actually that bad from what he’d seen. But that doesn’t matter right not. He’s poking the bear, hoping to be the carnage.

Steve’s fists clench hard, his jaw working as he grits his teeth. He’s refusing to say anything, resisting to be drawn into the disaster that is Billy Hargrove.

He’s punishing himself, and he knows it. That’s the point, harm the outside to distract from the pain on the inside. Either get hurt by Steve or hurt Steve enough that he won’t want to be near him anymore. So that everything good in his life is fucked up and over like it’s supposed to be.

He grabs the front of Harrington’s sweater, dragging their faces close together roughly. “C’mon,  _ King Steve, _ ” he spits it because he knows Steve hates it, “Stop being such a pussy. Hit me like we both know you want to.”

When the fist hits his face, he’s expecting it. Billy’s still gripping the other boy’s shirt, so when he stumbles, they both go down, falling into the snow. He wouldn’t have fallen if he just let go of the other teen.

“You still haven’t learned to plant your fucking feet,” Billy growls at the boy that landed hard on his bruised chest. He easily flips them over, pushing Steve’s back into the cold, sloppy snow and gaining the upper hand.

Steve struggles beneath him, kicking his feet to dislodge Billy. With a hard buck of his hips they are rolling again, elbows and knees flying and jabbing.

“Why can’t you ever learn to shut the fuck up,” the voice that come out of Steve is low and dangerous, a growl that Billy hasn’t heard since that fateful night at the Byers’. It excites him.

Billy’s fist flies, catching Steve hard on the jaw. He can feel himself slipping away the way he did that fall, losing himself in the anger and hatred. 

Then Steve lands a hard hit to his ribs, knocking the wind out of him because of the earlier damage courtesy of Neil Hargrove. It only makes Billy angrier, so he twists Harrington’s sweater in his hands and slams him into the frozen ground twice for good measure. The sound Steve makes isn’t what he’s expecting but he revels in it anyway.

Cold hands grip Billy’s open shirt and pull him down hard, trapping both pairs between heaving chests. Their eyes connect in the dull glow of the Beemer’s headlights. Their visible breath mingles in the cold air between them.

Billy doesn’t know how it happens, but after a pause they are kissing. The kiss is hard and rough and filled with rage. It’s all clashing teeth and sharp tongues, hot and fierce, the coppery taste of blood filling their mouths. The brunet flips them, easy because Billy’s not putting up much of a fight due to the shock of kissing Steve. The same cold hand slips around Billy’s throat, pressing just enough to show that he can, that he has the power. Billy can’t stand it at the same time that he loves it.

The second that Steve rolls his hips down between Billy’s thighs, Billy bucks him roughly off. The teen sprawls in the snow, dazed as Billy gets up and brushes himself off. He ignores the raging hard on he’s sporting in the damn too tight blue jeans

“The fuck’s your problem, asshole?” Steve shouts from where he’s still sprawled on the ground. 

Billy looks down at him with feigned disgust filling his bright eyes and turning down his lips. “I should be asking you that,” he spits, blood trickling from his split lip. 

By the time Steve is off the ground, Billy is running. He runs hard and fast down the slick road, hoping to God that Steve isn’t following. He isn’t running because he’s scared, he’s running because he knows this is how he will fuck everything up. Kissing Steve Fucking Harrington will fuck up everything. Even if every fibre of his being begs to keep kissing him. Plus, Steve is probably straight and just caught up in some weird moment.

Eventually, hot and exhausted and somehow still a little hard, he reaches the house and climbs through his window.

He doesn’t know what the fuck just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to include that pink panther thing because its the funniest thing ever to me. It's from this drawing/the office I think. https://twitter.com/kaiiceph/status/983944031301386242
> 
> P.S. Comments keep me motivated and I really appreciate everyone who comments.


	5. Chapter 5

Billy’s father glares at him like he knows what happened on the side of the road the night before when Billy comes out for breakfast. It’s hard to keep from feeling guilty, like he’s hiding something. Which, to be fair, he is, but what kid runs home and tells Daddy after every sexual encounter they’ve had? None. No one. Especially not Billy Hargrove. Even if Neil gives him that look that says  _ I know what you are, I know what you’ve done, who you’ve done. _

He side steps Neil, grabbing a piece of toast even though his stomach twists in nervous knots. He thanks Susan, because if he doesn’t he’ll catch hell. And he really doesn’t want to deal with that this early in the morning.

The voice behind him stops him in his tracks, though. “Have you been fighting again, boy?” It’s barely question, more of a statement.

“Just go a little too into it at practice,  _ sir. _ ” He wants to spit the last word, but he knows better than that. It sits heavy on his tongue, sour and angry, disgusting.

“Hope the other boy looks worse, I’m not raising no pussy.” Neil Hargrove picks up the newspaper lazily, not looking at Billy as he speaks. It’s another easy assertion of dominance. 

“Of course,  _ sir. _ ” Disgusting.

“You’d better get going, Maxine can’t be late for school.”

Before Billy has a chance to shout up the stairs for her, Max appears beside him.

“I’m ready to go,” she says, eyeing the tension between the Hargroves.

After a hasty exit, she stares at Billy. As far as she knows for sure, Billy’s only been really beaten by his father once. Neil usually waits for the house to be empty before wailing on him. It’s easier that way, for everyone. But she knows what happens on the nights that Billy is nowhere to be found and Neil is extra mean. And Billy knows she knows, now, because he makes passing comments on it.  _ You know he needs time to cool off.  _ Like it was nothing. Like staying at the chief’s house is  _ normal _ .

Now that he’s been less of an asshole, she’s starting to give a shit about him again. And Max really isn't a big fan of that. Because one wrong move, one thing that sets Neil off enough, will make it go away. It will either end with Billy regressing back to the person he was after what happened to make them move to Hawkins, or he will be dead. It would be easier to keep hating him.

She can easily remember that summer in Cali. Hot sun and white sandy beaches, bright blue skies and cool water. Before they had to move to Hawkins. Billy hadn’t been nice, or a good guy, but he was fun most of the time. When Neil and her mom would leave for the weekends, they would surf and see movies and eat cheap ice cream as it ran down their hands in the hot summer sun. It had almost been like having the brother she wanted. 

If they went back to that, it would be taken away again. So she wishes he would keep being mean, even if it was horrible, because it would be worse if she had to repeat that. Caring for him, almost loving him, and having it ripped away and broken again. Having Billy be broken again. He wouldn’t come back from it a second time. So if he would just stop being not-cruel she could keep hating him until he inevitably left the second he turns eighteen. 

But she can’t say he’s making it easy to keep hating him. With the Christmas and apologising (kind of) to Lucas and teasing her in the not so horrible way he used to and being decent to El. It was almost easy to find herself giving a shit about what happened to his stupid fucking face.

Once they’re in the Camaro, she braves a question. “That wasn’t him?” There’s no need to specify who him is. And Dustin had radioed earlier that Steve’s face was a little fucked up, too. She’s a smart girl, she can put two and two together.

She braces for the response, knowing it could go either way. It was always near impossible to tell what kind of mood Billy would be in. If he would get that crazy, angry look in his eyes like he always used to before Christmas; or if he would be somewhat decent like he was starting to be more and more often.

“No.” White knuckles gripped the steering wheel, even though the rest of his body looked relaxed. Sometimes it was so easy to see through his facade.

“You staying at El’s tonight?”

“Probably.” A lit cigarette hangs from his lips, wiggling as he talks around it.

“Cool.” She stares for a second, “I’ll tell him you’re with a girl from school.”

“Thanks, kid,” he doesn’t look at her when he says it, but his grip loosens on the steering wheel a fraction.

It’s a milestone in their repairing relationship, even if she doesn’t want it to be. She used to do the same thing back in Cali, before he was an extreme dick. Tell Neil he was with a girl from school or the ice cream stand when she knew for a fact he was on the pier with the tan skinned boy she had met only a few times when he joined them to ride the waves. It didn’t take a genius to understand the look in Billy’s eyes with that boy. 

“I still hate you,” she says, just to make it clear.

“Course you do,” he smirks like he can see straight through her words.

The first thing Max does when she finally meets up with the party at school is say, “Steve and Billy totally got into a fight last night. Steve even managed to get a hit in.”  
  


 

Two weeks pass and he doesn’t see Harrington. Basketball season ends the day after their kiss and Steve doesn’t even bother showing up for final practice.

When he finally runs into Harrington again, it’s at Hopper’s cabin. Everyone is there and it’s loud and raucous and Billy’s just thinking he can make it through the night without having to acknowledge Harrington at all. The others notice the shift between the two young men, going from teasing with only a little malice to not looking one another in the eye. No one dares say anything about it, but Max wonders what Billy did to fuck it up. They had been actually getting along in the month before.

The tension mounts between the boys as the night proceeds, hot and coiled tight and painfully obvious. The younger kids’ eyes flick back and forth between the two of them throughout the meal, preparing for the bomb to go off. Hopper prepares himself to break up a fight.

The awkward night is almost over and Billy is swapping between spraying whipped cream in El’s mouth and his as Hopper watches with disgust when Steve catches his wrist. There’s fire in Billy’s bright blue eyes and Steve feels like sometimes, he could get lost in those eyes, in that fire. With a rough yank, Billy tries to free his wrist from Steve’s grasp. It doesn’t work. The older teen’s got a better grip than Billy was expecting. So much for getting out of this night without any bruises, physical or otherwise.

“Have a cigarette with me, Hargrove,” Steve growls with another rough pull of Billy’s arm. Anger covers the hurt in his voice, the absence of the other boy giving him time to begin hating instead of hurting.

“And if I don’t want a smoke, pretty boy?” Which was a stupid thing to say, because when did Billy not want a cigarette?

“Then stand outside while I smoke.” It’s a command, and even if Billy really doesn’t want to have this conversation, it’s compelling. In the back of his mind, Billy registers that the rest of the cabin, save Nancy and Jonathan who are in their own little world, is silent and intently watching them.

So he lets himself be led outside. Even if he’d rather die. Maybe he’ll even get another little fight out of this. An adrenaline rush and the copper taste of blood might be kind of nice right about now. Billy’s always down for a brawl.

The kids cram themselves around the window very obviously, thinking they’re inconspicuous as the peak out at the older boys. Billy can only imagine what they’re thinking, but he assumes they’re preparing for fists to be thrown now that the original marks have faded away completely. Not that he can talk, because he’s preparing for that too. With a sharp look into the window, directly into Max’s blue eyes that almost match his even though they aren’t related, they drop down in fear. Billy knows better than to think they’ve left the window. As soon as he looks away, their little heads will pop right back up. He hopes to God that they can’t hear through the wall.

The air is frigid in the early nightfall. Violet tendrils of sunset stretch across the cloudy sky. Steve doesn’t look at him, shoulders slumped as he leans against the front railing. At the first touch of chilled air, Billy grabs his smokes, because hell if he’s gonna talk to Steve without something in his hands and mouth and some nicotine in his system. And hell if he’s gonna be the first one to say anything. 

After a long drag of his cigarette, Steve sighs, “Let’s just forget about it, alright? Go back to whatever it was before,” his voice trails off, uncertain, before starting again with a little more confidence. “We’re gonna have to see each other a lot, if you’re gonna keep hanging around.”

When he says the next part, Steve looks deep into Billy’s eyes for the first time since they came out, “It was a mistake. And like you said, I’m not some fag.” 

Billy nods numbly, even though he knew it was true and he had seen it coming from a mile away. It just hurt to hear it out loud after he had gotten his stupid hopes up. He doesn't let himself revel in self pity very long. Instead he covers it with sneering confidence. Covers the bitterness with cold, closed off anger.

He doesn’t see how Steve grits his teeth after saying that, because he’s not looking anymore. Doesn’t see the way the lit cigarette crumples under too much pressure.

“Course. Never said you were,” he says scornfully. The butt of his cigarette crushes nicely under the heel of his boot. With his hand on the doorknob, he looks back at Steve for the first time, “But you were the one who kissed  _ me _ , Harrington.” 

Billy’s inside before Steve can respond. “Maxine!” He shouts, much louder than he actually means to, “Get your shit, we’re going.” When she starts to protest, he just says, “Curfew,” in a way that makes her understand without saying it outright.

When they get in the car, Max just looks at him and states, “Curfew isn’t for another two hours.”

“Don’t,” Billy warns lowly, turning the music up as loud as it will go so she won’t keep prodding. It doesn’t work, the little shit just turns it back down and keeps her hand blocking the controls. 

“Seriously? You’re being a fucking child, Maxine.” His hand gets slapped away when he tries to get around her. 

“I’m thirteen, what’s your excuse?” 

Billy pushes the gas pedal harder, the car picking up speed easily. The wind howls around them, Billy’s chest is tight in silent fury and pain, Max’s knuckles white on the dashboard. 

“He’s not gay, is he?” She asks, knowing too much. It makes him want to punch her, but he doesn’t. He wouldn’t. He’s always drawn that line, even when he was more of a shit to her. She may get the brunt of his temper, but he doesn’t throw punches at little girls.

It’s obvious how much their relationship has changed, just by her saying those words. It would never be like it once was, before everything in Billy’s life returned to shit, but she almost acted like she liked him. Or was okay with him. She sits next to him, shoved between him and Lucas at the party’s dinners now. He ruffles her hair because it annoys her, and she pushes him playfully off now. Her two finger salutes lack the malice that they used to hold. 

She rides the skateboard he got her for Christmas, even though the roads are icy.

“Shut your damn mouth.” It’s answer enough.

She does. The music gets turned back up to a deafening volume, and she ignores him and his lead foot. Because it hurts, it hurts too much, more than it should, to see him turning back into what he was before the fateful night at the Byers’. It’s impossible for her to tell how long this mood will last, or if it will ever leave like she hopes it will.

Flying out of the Camaro, Max runs to her room the second they reach the house. She wonders which Billy he will be in the morning.

  
  
  


In the days that follow, Billy chills out. Somewhat. As chill as Billy Fucking Hargrove can get while in Hawkins.

Steve approaches him in the hallways of the high school, soft and sheepish and  _ strange _ . Why couldn’t he just be mean and biting and bitter? Everything is easier if Steve wasn’t going to  _ sulk  _  and ask him to join him under the bleachers for a smoke. He does it, because of course he does, it’s Harrington. 

Steve even brought his own cigarettes this time.

It’s just  _ weird _ .

When Steve asks him if he wants to get high in his house on Friday night instead of at the quarry, Billy accepts. Because  _ King Steve _ is asking him. And he’s a stupid piece of shit that doesn’t know what’s good for him. And he truly doesn't have a self preserving bone in his body.

“We gotta get along, you know,” Steve says, like he’s trying harder to convince himself than Billy, “Now that you aren’t like, the worst person ever, I guess.”

Billy just raises his eyebrows to that and takes a drag from his bummed cig. 

“And I’m sick of your shit making it awkward at Hop’s.”

“Is it my shit that’s making it awkward, Harrington, or is it yours?” He drags his eyes over Steve’s body, just to make him uncomfortable.

Pink cheeks and a huff of annoyance is his response. “Definitely your shit.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,  _ princess _ .”

“You’re such a dick.”

Billy sucks in smoke, contemplating. The relationship between the two teenagers is like a yo-yo. A really, really slow yo-yo. Steve’s pissed at him one week, then the next he’s trying to be friends or some shit. And Billy, well, Billy doesn’t really know what he is. His life is a stupid yo-yo of emotions and he’s just trying to make the swings smaller. To make Max and Steve not hate him as much. To be a good fucking person because El is a bad influence, making him care and shit. 

He drives to the cabin after dropping Max at the arcade, because he needs to beat the shit out of something. Even if the bag isn’t quite as satisfying as Steve’s face. 

When he makes his way inside the cabin, El greets him from the kitchen, a bag of peas already in hand. She drops it onto his bruised knuckles. 

“Learned a new word today,” she announces as she sits next to him on the couch. 

“Yeah? Which one?” For some reason, this weird girl seems to get Billy more than the rest of Hawkins, combined. Reminds her of her sister, she says. And he recognizes the darkness behind her eyes.

“Redemption.”

“And what’s it mean?”

They do this, sometimes. When El reads through the dictionary and memorizes the words she likes. Usually Hopper is the first to know about a fun new word, but sometimes she chooses Billy. Makes him all warm and fuzzy in a disgustingly soft way that he can’t stand. 

Billy Hargrove is anger and loud music and hot sun, not warm and fuzzy with young teen girls.

“You, I think,” El’s eyes burn into his own, fiery enough to make him turn away. He rarely sees the fire from himself matched. But what’s in El isn’t the same, it isn’t anger and rage and a need to hurt. Or at least it isn’t right now. Right now, she almost looks protective. Protective of someone who could, and probably would if he really wanted to, beat her to a pulp.

It was a weird feeling, to be cared about again. Billy used to be cared about. By his mother before she died, by the boy on the beach with chocolate eyes and a beautiful grin. He kind of wishes she wouldn’t. It’s easier to hate the world and cope with pain by inflicting more if people hate you or don’t give a shit about you.

“Is that right?”

“‘ The action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.’” El quotes, still staring at him with that look in her eye.

“And who am I saving or being saved from, kid?”

“Yourself.” She says it like its nothing. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like Billy isn’t so far gone he can’t be saved. Like there’s hope where there so obviously isn’t.

Billy doesn’t have a response for that. Only that this dumb, weird kid makes him want to be better. Like he could prove her right. He knows he can’t, that it’ll just take another beating from Neil and he will be in a downwards, rage-filled spiral. It happens every time. And one of these days he’ll go to far and end up dead or in jail.

Luckily for Billy, Hopper walks through the front door then. He isn’t even surprised by Billy’s presence anymore. That stopped back in January.

“How many plates do I need for dinner?” Hopper asks, like it’s the biggest inconvenience in the world. Billy can easily call his bluff. 

“Two, I’m heading out, now.” Billy stands and tosses the peas back to El on his way out, “Thanks, dickhead,” he says affectionately. Hopper doesn’t even bother correcting his language. It’s like he’s accepted his daughter’s corruption.

Life is hard. It’s even harder to not be a dick all the time. Who knew this whole ‘not turning into his father’ thing was gonna blow so much?

  
  
  


They sit on pool loungers outside Steve’s open sliding glass pool door. The heat from the house warming their backs as they pass a blunt back and forth. Billy had asked if the Harringtons would be pissed for racking up their heat bill, and Steve just laughed in a way that did not portray mirth. He knew that the Harringtons were loaded, but still hadn’t expected the inside of that house. He’d seen the outside once or twice from carting Max around. But still. It was huge. And pretty. It kind of made him hate Harrington a little more, because how the hell could this guy just exist like this. With this. And still show up to the quarry looking like he’d been through hell.

Billy ignores the way that Steve looks at his pool, filled with disgust at the covered thing.

Steve ignores the way Billy’s lips turn down when he looks at the older teen.

Silence gets under Billy’s skin, makes him itch. The slow buzz of THC in his system helps, but it doesn’t cure anything.

“You ever gonna tell me why you’re at Hop’s all the time?” Steve asks once they’ve finishes the blunt, hoping Billy’s high enough not to get defensive. 

“You ever gonna tell me why you carry around a damn bat with nails in it?” Billy shoots back.

So, that didn’t work.

The silence is deafening. Billy’s just high enough and just angry enough and just annoyed by the quiet enough that eventually, long enough after for Steve to almost have forgotten that he ever asked to say, “My dad’s a dick. Grade-A douchebag. Hopper gets it.”

Steve doesn’t ask what that means. He doesn’t think he actually want to know. The vague idea he has of Billy and Max’s home life makes his stomach churn without even knowing the details. At least Steve’s parents care, even if they’re never home. 

“There’s monsters in the woods,” Steve says instead, reminiscing in the time they got drunk by the quarry. 

Billy Hargrove is an enigma, Steve thinks, even if he’s a little unsure if that’s the right way to use the word. His skin radiates heat and fire, rage and pain, like Steve could be burned if he touched it. But his eyes, the way they stare into the trees surrounding the Harrington house, are different. They speak of melancholy and loneliness, of a hurt boy drowning in alcohol and cigarettes, self hate and anger covered by swagger and confidence. Steve wonders if he’s the only one who can see it. See through Billy’s loud act of uncaring and sex appeal. Wonders who he was before Hawkins, if he was always this angry at the world.

“There’s monsters out here, too, princess,” Billy repeats the same words from the quarry.

Each boy is locked in their sadness, their pain, their anger and bitterness. The weed only calms the sea, it doesn’t quell the waves. Trading secrets in the dull light of the windows and cool nip of the night air. It seems routine. 

Steve’s fingers brush Billy’s hand. The skin burns like he expects, despite the cold. The hand is snatched away.

“I’m freezing my balls off, pretty boy, let’s go inside.”

This wasn’t the Billy Steve had expected when he invited him over. He expected the Billy he sees at parties, cocky and sure, drinking and flirting and fighting. It’s not that he isn’t cocky or any of those other things, he’s just too quiet to be what Steve expects. He doesn’t expect melancholy and a hushed admission. He doesn’t know which Billy he likes better. Not that he likes either.

They each take a few shots when they get inside, of good liquor from Steve’s dad’s office. A movie gets put in the VCR and Billy turns the volume up way too high. It’s hard not to be annoyed by him. The mood turns on a dime when they get in the house. It’s like Billy can turn on his cool confidence and annoying behaviors in the span of a second. 

When Steve looks over at the other boy, he wants to kiss him again. 

He doesn’t look like the same person he met at that party in the fall. He isn’t the same person he was at that party.

Billy’s legs are thrown carelessly on Steve’s lap as he lounges on the couch. Steve’s hands rest on his knees, relaxed and languid with the alcohol and THC. His thumb rubs gentle circles on the limb without him even noticing. The blond looks almost comfortable, his usually tense shoulders relaxing minutely due to the drugs. The cool air of relaxed confidence usually around Billy just covers a wound tight burning fire, and Steve can see that now.

One thing that’s hard to miss about Billy is that he comments on fucking everything when watching a movie. Worse than Dustin, which Steve had thought was impossible. Talks like its going out of style. Shockingly different from what he’s like at the quarry, stoic and angry and mostly silent, only speaking to jab at Steve. He still makes jabs and mean jokes, occasionally accentuated by a lazy kick to Steve’s thigh if he doesn’t get the reaction he wants. Which is almost never.

He’s an enigma. A very complicated one, at that. One with too many personalities to keep track of when Steve’s not at his finest.

A yo-yo. Right now, they are up, teetering on that second of motionlessness before gravity takes over and they plummet down. Neither boy knows when that plummet will be, but they know it will happen. Steve is hopeful, that maybe it won’t. Billy knows himself better than to expect anything else.

Steve falls asleep watching Billy ramble about the movie and shove chips in his mouth. Annoying as hell, but Steve still wants to kiss him.

Billy’s gone when Steve wakes up.

He doesn’t think about how he didn’t have a nightmare for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not the biggest fan of this chapter but I'm not sure how to improve it right now so here it is. I have a bunch of scenes written out but connecting them has proven to be a challenge. Hence, this chapter not being my favorite.


	6. Chapter 6

That weekend, Billy and Max rent a VHS of E.T. from the video store because Susan and Neil are going to Indianapolis for the weekend and E.T. reminds Max of home. They pass popcorn back and forth until they’ve stuffed themselves. Solely to annoy her, Billy wipes greasy fingers on Max’s arm and laughs wickedly. 

They spend Friday night on the couch, finally in a somewhat peaceful house. They can’t help but feel it’s the calm before the storm. But Billy enjoys it anyway. The ease of existing without the threat of getting beaten. The easy way he gets along with his shithead sister without threats looming over their heads. 

Max falls asleep on the couch and pretends to not wake up when Billy throws a blanket over her. In her dreams, she thinks about how different he is. How El has changed him. How his casual, strange alliance with Steve has made him more comfortable. How Billy can change so drastically in such a short time. From mean but not the worst in Cali, surfing and teasing and movies; to actual Hell on Earth when they moved, anger and fear striking and broken; to this. Putting a blanket over her shoulders and hanging out with El and punching bags instead of people most of the time.

How maybe, just maybe, she will miss him a tiny bit when he leaves.

On Saturday night, Billy drops Max at the Wheeler’s and heads to a house party in the rich part of town, because it’s been too long since he’s done a good keg stand and too much time spent getting chummy with thirteen and fourteen year olds. And he’ll lose his title as the new king of Hawkins high if he doesn’t go to enough parties and he sure as hell can’t have that. Not after just snatching it out from under Steve.

He preens in front of the mirror for a long time that night, fixing his face and messing with his clothes and getting his hair perfect, because he can without Neil in the house. When he looks fine as hell, he leaves, knowing he’s going to get lucky tonight. Even if it has to be with a girl, imagining someone else below him. It’s better than nothing. Plus, it ups his street cred and popularity usually. Even if the soft curves of a girl’s body makes him mildly nauseous.

Thinking about Steve makes Billy’s stomach twist and his chest alight with fire, angry and hungry at the same time. Not necessarily angry at Steve anymore. Angry that he couldn’t just kiss Steve and take and take and take, whatever he wanted. Angry that he’ll be killed if he gets caught with a boy. Angry that nothing ever works out for Billy Fucking Hargrove.

So he tells himself that he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a shit about stupid things like romance and kissing boys and fucking Steve Harrington. Instead, he seduces a girl at the party. The blasting music and burning booze makes him feel free, like he can take on the world and nothing matters. Not his dad, not Hawkins, not the awkward tension every time he lays eyes on Steve.

Much to everyone’s surprise, especially Tommy’s, Harrington shows his face at the party. He spends most his time in the kitchen, drinking punch like it’s going out of style and chatting like he used to before Nancy happened and the world went to hell and nothing seemed like it mattered. It still doesn’t seem like anything matters, but Steve figures he should get drunk and laid and maybe it’ll keep Billy’s perfect, perky ass out of his head.

After an hour and a kickass keg stand (which Tommy annoyingly slapped his back for and leeched onto him like he hadn’t been ignoring the dumbass outside of school since December) Billy finally thinks he’s drunk enough to talk to Steve. 

 

Billy Hargrove is fire and raging masculinity, hard muscles and sharp words behind sharper teeth. He doesn’t do boyfriends or feelings or anything that would make Neil’s words truer than they already are. Especially not in small town Hawkins. Not that he hasn’t been in love. He has, he thinks. Or at least as close as a Hargrove can get to love. But that’s not how it works in Indiana, thousands of miles away from the coast and the protests and the boys on the beach who don’t care what anyone thinks.

Billy knew he was gay long before his father ever started using it as an insult. 

 

Back against the kitchen counter, hair wild from running his fingers through it, Steve sips a beer. Billy can feel his eyes hot on the exposed skin of his chest, his neck, his own eyes. Whether he is begging for a fight or a fuck giving Billy eyes like that, the blond isn’t sure. He doubts Steve knows either. 

Tommy is hot on Billy’s heels as he crosses the threshold of the kitchen, and insult of the tip of his tongue the second he catches sight of Steve. The more Billy drinks, the more annoying the guy becomes. 

Tommy pushes past Steve with a rough shoulder, “Watch it Harrington.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Billy catches Steve roll his eyes. This’ll be good. 

“Oh fuck off, Tommy.”

“You think you’re still tough shit, Harrington,” Tommy slurs, obviously wasted, “Seem to remember you getting the shit kicked outta you by him.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder at Billy, “You ain’t shit, Harrington.”

Steve seems unfazed by the boy’s attempts to rile him up, “Glad you found someone else’s dick to worship, Tommy, since I dumped you.”

Before Tommy can throw the punch he’s gearing up for, Billy catches his arm. It’s stupid, but he hates seeing other people get into it. If it’s not him throwing the punches and catching fists to the face, Billy doesn’t see the point. There’s only joy hidden in a fight that’s your own.

“Get the fuck out,” Billy growls, low and dangerous. When Tommy starts to protest, he slings a beer at the teen and says, “Leave,” in a way that makes Tommy tuck his tail between his legs and just about sprint from the kitchen. 

Not before yelling, “Queer” over his shoulder though, always having to get the last word in.

With a fluid motion, Billy dips his cup into the mystery punch and downs the contents in one go. A loud, raucous party is truly where he’s in his element. His skin prickles from Steve’s hard gaze even through the haze of alcohol. 

“Got a savior complex now too, Hargrove? Or d’you just think I can’t handle Tommy’s stupid shit on my own?”

The yo-yo is on it’s way down, then. 

“Hey, his bitch ass was annoying me too. I told him to fuck off for purely selfish reasons.”

With another long pull of beer, they fade into silence. Billy’s eyes catch on the muscles of Steve’s throat as he swallows. 

They’re alone in the kitchen, and Billy isn’t sure if that’s what he wanted or not. Because being alone means that something will happen and either way it won’t be good. So he taunts, because it’s what he’s good at.

“You’re not gonna reclaim your crown from here, _King Steve_ ,” Billy sneers, crowding the other boy further into the counter. The buzz in his head is enough to convince himself that this is for intimidation.

“Who said I want to reclaim it? Thought I gave it to you.” Surprisingly, his words aren’t slurred and his eyes are sharper than diamonds, cutting through Billy like he’s soft and pliable, everything he isn’t, doesn’t want to be.

“I took it, pretty boy, get it right.”

Steve’s breath hitches deep in his throat as Billy’s hands slide on either side of him, gripping the counter with white knuckles. He can almost taste the beer on the blond’s tongue he’s so close. 

“I didn’t make it hard, though.” And he knows that was not the right thing to say as soon as it’s out, as soon as Billy’s mouth twitches up at the corners.

“Gotta lot of experience making things hard?” Billy drawls, because come on, it’s right there. The way his eyes flick down is outright obscene. And it’s all to get a rise out of Steve, to get another punch thrown. For the fun of it. Right?

“You’re disgusting.”

“You don’t know the half of it, pretty boy.” Billy presses in closer, emboldened with alcohol. It’s a threat, thinly veiled, but neither one knows what exactly Billy is threatening.

It strikes Steve how true that is. How he really doesn’t know the other boy. How just because he spends a few nights a month sitting in the cold drinking or getting high with the guy doesn’t actually mean he knows anything about him. How the snipits he gets from Max aren’t really anything. How Billy Hargrove might just be unknowable. 

How just because he kissed back doesn’t mean anything. 

Each boy is caught between a kiss and a punch, unsure which would be more pleasing. Steve’s hand, cold as always, creeps up to grip the open hem of Billy’s shirt. Knuckles brush the skin under it in an assertion of dominance. _Look at where I am,_ Steve thinks, _look what I could do._

He tugs the shirt roughly and Billy barely moves, strong and braced against the counter he’s pining Steve to. The grin Billy sports is wicked, tongue poking out from behind sharp teeth. 

“What’s your next move, Harrington,” he purrs, the alcohol in his system overriding the vague sense of danger. Overriding how every bone in his body screams at him to stop, that he can’t get into this in Hawkins, can’t do this with Harrington. That this violates every aspect of their truce. That he can’t fucking stand this stupid boy and his stupid fluffy hair. That in this moment he wants more than anything to kiss him stupid then punch his lights out for doing it.

Billy watches Steve’s big brown eyes drop down to his lips.

Billy finds danger wherever he is. It’s in his bones. Push too far, fight too hard, leap over the blurry line of morality. Lean in to kiss Steve Harrington in a crowded house despite the fact being caught could mean certain death in a small town where his father looms over everything. 

When the door bangs open, Billy flies from his spot, ripping away from Steve’s grasp. In the blink of an eye, he’s gone. Steve’s still not sure if he wants to punch or kiss him. 

Billy grinds into some girl in the living room half an hour later. Her name escapes him, he’s not even sure she told him, but it doesn’t matter. His eyes lock with Steve’s as he fucks his tongue into the girl’s mouth, gaze hard and rough and filled with lust and anger. The way Steve flushes bright red and fiery, Billy could swear he’s jealous. But that’s the point right? 

Truthfully, he doesn’t have the faintest idea of what the point is.

The cops show up before he can fuck the girl, and in a weird way, it’s almost a relief. Billy runs for miles through the woods, cold air burning through the lungs that threaten to sear their way out of his chest. He does it because he can, even though the Camaro is parked near the house and cops don’t chase wild tipsy boys into the woods on a Saturday night. He runs because the pain in his chest and legs is the only thing that makes him feel alive. Runs because it’s an easy distraction from Steve and the steamy scene in the kitchen. Runs because as he runs, he feels miles away from Hawkins and California and his father, like the only thing that matters is in the woods chasing after him.

He throws a hard punch at Tommy on the way out, too, because he can.

 

Billy stands in the cool winter-spring air on the Byers’ back porch. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips. The night is dark and heavy but not unpleasant. Billy revels in the ease of leaning on a railing outside of a house filled with love and tries not to feel jealous of the people inside. He’s been mostly initiated into the group, even if Dustin gives him the evil eye every time he’s around and Nancy looks at him like she’ll kill him the second he fucks it up. Which he knows he’ll do. Eventually. Things never stay good for Billy Hargrove. 

The empty woods make his chest tight. Early April nights are cold, but warm enough that Billy didn’t grab his jacket before slipping out. Everything about Hawkins makes him miss California. Miss the hot sun and desert trees. Even in the North they don’t have this type of woods, cold and snow drooped. 

The young Byers kid interrupts his thoughts, shifting where he stands just outside the door. Billy hasn’t interacted much with this kid, and he assumes the kid’s probably scared shitless of him. Quiet and filled with happy-sadness, looking like he’s been beaten by the world too many times. 

“Shit, kid, how long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” the kid answers quietly, looking up at him with big eyes. Billy doesn’t miss the way they linger just a little too long on his exposed chest. He knows that linger, he’d done it enough times to be able to pick it out. And it frequently lands on him, boys and girls alike admiring his gleaming, muscular chest. “They’re going to start wondering where you are soon.”

There’s a faint blush on Will’s cheeks, hard to see in the pale porch light. 

“Yeah, they worry a lot, don’t they?” 

Will just nods softly. They stay there for a second, and Billy knows this isn’t the reason the kid came out of the house where all his friends are. Billy isn’t the kind of guy that young teens leave their group of best friends to chat with.

“Just spit it out,” he prods, not exactly unkind but not nicely either.

The kid shifts in place before muttering, “You’re a,” he pauses, then restarts a little more confidently, “You’re a faggot, aren’t you?”

Billy was expecting it. He wasn’t really expecting the kid that was so soft around the edges that he was basically blurred into the background to say ‘faggot’ but that’s neither here nor there.

“Don’t say that.”

Will looks shaken, “You aren’t?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I think,” Will pauses again, longer this time, “I think I am, too.”

“I know, kid, that’s why I told you not to say faggot,” he gives Will a pointed look, “Anyone else know about you?”

“Only Bob. My mom’s old boyfriend. He was nice about it. He was nice, in general.”

Billy doesn’t ask why he uses past tense. “You can’t go telling everyone, you know that, right? Not in Hawkins.”

A long stretch of silence follows, filled with bitter cigarette smoke.

Eventually Will breaks it, “How long have you been with Steve?”

Billy sure as hell wasn’t expecting that, so he almost chokes of his puff of smoke. “What? I’m not with Steve.” Billy tries to keep the bitterness and surprise out of his out of his voice.

“But you’re in love with him?” It’s less of a question, more of a statement that Will doesn’t actually need confirmation on.

“No. Steve isn’t,” Billy cuts himself off.

Will pauses, “But you could be, right? If he was like us.”

“Yeah, I could be, kid, but he’s not.” Billy lets out a long breath, a cloud of smoke following.

“I think you’re wrong. I think he is.” 

“Alright, kid.”

With that, the conversation is over. Billy drops his cigarette butt in the ashtray on the railing and goes inside. He thinks about how Will knows too much for his age, how he sees more than he should when he looks at people. He doesn’t entertain the idea that he could be right.

Instead, he sits sandwiched between Steve and Max on the floor, a knee resting on each of their laps and Max playfully shoving it every once in a while. The easy contentment is unsettling. It makes Billy want to fuck something up. To start a fight with Steve or pick on one of the kids a little too hard just so Steve will stop pretending like the party hadn’t happened.

When Billy and Max had arrived at the Byers’ that Friday night, almost a week later, Steve acted like he couldn’t remember the party.

“That punch was strong, man,” Steve said, clapping his hand on Billy’s back like they were suddenly the best of friends. Which they were not. Billy Hargrove doesn’t have friends. No matter what El says. “I don’t remember anything past that keg stand you did.”

And Billy knew he was lying through his teeth. There hadn’t been the drunken glazed over eyes in that kitchen, no slur in Steve’s words. He didn’t push it like he wanted to, not there in front of everyone.

“You’re just a lightweight, Harrington,” he said instead, unbothered and winking. Billy doesn’t let shit like that get to him. Nothing matters, and the father he stays from Steve the better it will be for both of them.

Each interaction they have is different. Every Billy Steve meets could be someone else, he thinks. Billy who teases El and Max, the one who eggs Steve into fights, the one who flirts with moms, the sad one from the quarry who drinks more than he should and chainsmokes cigarettes, the one who parties and gives a shit about what the people of Hawkins high think of him, the one who pisses him off to no end. He wonders which one, or which combination, is the real Billy. He wonders if there _is_ a real Billy.

 

Joyce, fucking mother of the year, laughs so hard she cries when Billy gives her a single plate as a hosting gift before he and Max leave. Then she starts really crying, hard and angry tears, and Billy doesn’t know what he’s fucked up this time. She hugs him, fierce and tight, almost dropping the stupid plate. Wet tears soak through the shoulder of his shirt, and he knows he’s supposed to shrug her off to keep up his image, but he can’t bring himself to. Because he doesn’t know the last time he was hugged, really held in a way not meant to hurt him. 

When her sobs stop and she pulls herself back from wherever she just went for a minute there, Joyce whispers in his ear, “I’m proud of you, for coming this far.”

And Billy thinks it’s a lot of fuss over a stupid plate. It turned a lot deeper, a lot darker, than the joke he had meant it to be. Even if he doesn’t have any clue what the party went through before he unintentionally joined, he can feel the pain under the surface of something a lot bigger than he can imagine.

He doesn’t think he’s come very far, either. Just because he’s softened around the edges from El and Max and only gets into fights with an inanimate object and accepts the truce he started with Harrington doesn’t mean he’s _changed._ Not really.

Will waves at him as they leave. He checks around to see if anyone other than Billy is paying attention before looking pointedly at Steve and winking dramatically at Billy.

When Max asks why he’s laughing in the car, he doesn’t tell her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a lot of grief and it's one of the longest so far, so I hope you like it. 
> 
> 'broken' by lovelytheband is kinda my anthem for this fic. Also, it'll turn into '18' by Anarbor as chapters go on. So listen to that if you want a cryptic spoiler. I have a bunch of other songs for this fic/pairing lmk if you want a playlist for this fic, ik it's not everyones thing.

The woods is dark and looming, tall trees tower over Billy. It makes him feel insignificant in a way that isn’t that bad. Like the mountains in California. They were there before him, they would be there after, and no matter how fucked up Billy’s life was, the world would go on without him. There’s comfort in the insignificant. Comfort in knowing nothing matters, in the end.

Because, _God,_ it feels like he’s the only person in the whole damn world. Like the world could swallow him up and the only ones who would notice would be those who rejoice in his disappearance. Because here, in Indiana, there’s no one. No boys on the beach, no surfers in the water, no one who gives half a shit about anything that matters.

He doesn’t go to the quarry because his nose is broken. It’s still dripping mostly clotted blood into his maroon sleeve. Thanks to his past self for picking out a red shirt this morning because it’s easier to get bloodstains out of it. There are bruises forming on his palms from smacking the steering wheel too hard after he fled the house. His fingers are stiff and rough, unwilling to curl completely around the steering wheel. He forces them anyway, because it hurts like hell and he wants to fucking _hurt_. Because he needs to be in control of something, anything. Even if it’s his own pain.

When he pulls up to the cabin, deflated, the first thing he sees is Joyce Byers sitting on the stairs with a cigarette in hand. She glows in the lights of his car, looking mildly angelic and reminding him way too much of his own mother. The steering wheel gets another hard smack at that thought, because _fuck that._

After spending a suspiciously long time trying to reign in the break down that usually follows his father’s fists, he joins Joyce on the step. Wordlessly, she passes him a cigarette. 

“Should I ask?” She says after a long stretch of smoke filled silence. 

“Should I?” He shoots back, “You’re here at ten, too. Pretty easy to guess what’s going on.” The insinuation is clear through his tone, sultry and mean. Because he has to poke and prod, make her hate him before she decides to stop. Even if she just last week she hugged him over the stupid plate.

Joyce sighs at that, not giving in. “You’re hurt,” she says instead, “And you’re trying to hurt me. Scare me off. But Billy, I’ve got two sons and you’re far from the scariest thing I’ve seen.”

They each take a drag. “You don’t know shit about me,” Billy says, because it’s true and he wants to take his anger out on someone. To push someone too far. To make her hate him like she’s supposed to.

She has the audacity to laugh at him, “I think I can figure out most of what I need to know.”

A different angle, then. “How long have you been fucking Hopper?” He asks, because it’s invasive and vulgar and she won’t rise to his antics.

It’s April now, and Billy’s been to enough party dinners to get into Joyce’s good graces. He’s polite and respectful and helps her do the dishes most nights, because he’s always been good at getting moms to like him. But that doesn’t change the fact that Billy Hargrove is fire and fury, burning hot and blistering, ready to sear anything in his path. It happens everytime he gets in a fight with his dad. He burns from the inside out and needs to make everyone else feel as miserable as he does. 

So it doesn’t matter that Joyce likes him, that he puts on his good boy mom charmer act with her normally. She’s in his path, so she must be burned. 

She just laughs at him again, frustratingly. “Hopper and I aren’t in a relationship, Billy.” Though there is obviously something she isn’t saying. Her voice shakes just a little when she speaks, her perpetually red rimmed eyes getting a little wetter. Billy wonders if this is about ‘Bob’. Whoever he was. 

“Will likes to come over sometimes. He and El have been through things that only they understand,” She gives him that _look_. The look that says she knows more about him than Billy would like her to. The look that says that she knows why he and El have gotten along so well. The look that Billy can’t stand, because there’s pity in her eyes. “I think you can understand that.”

Billy doesn’t have a response to that. Joyce’s hand covers his, the one holding the cigarette that he didn’t realize was shaking ever so slightly. He wants to rip it out of her grip, but it reminds him to much of his own mother for him to do it immediately. He’s on the edge of deflation, and he hates how Joyce has pushed him over with her kindness.

“My mom was a lot like you,” he says simply, surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Not to Joyce, not to anyone. His mother makes him vulnerable, and he can’t stand it. He hates that there is so much in this world that hurts him, that makes him a target, that he can’t fucking _control_.

Joyce’s hand moves from his hand to his back, warm and firm and just _there_. “She must have been a good mother.” She doesn’t ask what happened, who she was, where she was. He’s grateful for that.

Truth is, though, Billy’s mother was far from a good one. But she loved him and Billy had been young and naive enough to think that was all that mattered. She protected him fiercely, and Billy could remember those angry blue eyes that matched his own going at it with his dad. Her eyes were really the only thing that he could really remember about the way she looked.

They sit in silence, breathing in nicotine. Everything tastes of copper, red and hot in Billy’s mouth, staining his filter.

Inside the cabin, Will and El are waiting for him on the couch. Billy has no clue how she always knows what to expect when he arrives, but she’s already got bandages in her hands. 

Hopper takes one look at him before saying, “You should go to the hospital for that break.”

Billy laughs at that idea, harsh and mean. “Not happening, old man.”

So Hopper sets Billy’s nose as best he can. Hopper doesn’t ask how it happened, even if he wants to because of the two young teens in the room with them. Billy spits red into the bathroom sink, diluted and coagulated and disgusting. 

He makes himself at home on the couch, much to the disdain of Hopper. His legs lie heavily on the younger teens as he settles in, wishing everyone would leave so he could sleep off the approaching migraine. 

El and Will whisper to themselves, and Billy just hangs an arm gently over his eyes to tune them out. From their hushed tones and Will’s extremely hesitant, shivering hands on his shin, he can tell they’re talking about him. 

“Either ask or stop talking about it,” Billy groans angrily, arm still covering his eyes. He’s not planning on moving it anytime soon.

There’s only the sound of shuffling after that for a long moment.

“Will wants to know why you keep fighting,” El finally says, straight and to the point before getting a sharp elbow to the ribs as Will grumbles something Billy doesn’t care enough to hear.

“If Will wants to know something he can ask for himself.”

Billy’s not expecting Will to do it, after he’s said it in such a harsh, bitter way. But he does.

“Why do you keep doing it?” Will asks after a beat, young and innocent in a way that contradicts his too-old doe eyes, “Can’t you just stop fighting?”

Billy’s not sure if he’s asking about his father or if Will thinks he gets the bruises anywhere else. They don’t talk about it, ever. Even with Max, Billy never really dares admit that it’s his own damn father that beats him most of the time. That if it was anyone else, there’d barely be a scratch on Billy. But the way Hopper looks at him and whispers to Joyce whose eyes never stop being filled to the brim with melancholy and anger in a sharp contrast to those same emotions in Billy’s, they must know. But Billy wonders if it ever gets past the adults. If Will is still innocent enough to not put it together.

So all he says is, “It doesn’t work that way, kid,” from behinds his arm, all the fight of the long night gone from his voice, from his body. 

Not long after, Will and Joyce leave and Billy falls asleep to the usual sound of cartoons and El settled on the floor against the couch near his chest. It is depressingly comforting to have her there, where she has taken to sitting until Hopper forces her to go to bed, too. Billy hates how it lying on a couch in a cops house with a young teenager is the most comfortable he’s been in a long time. How even if he doesn’t feel safe here, he doesn’t feel like he’s on the razor’s edge of danger.

 

When he sees Steve again, it’s in school. Which in and of itself is not special, because since the beginning of their truce Billy has taken it upon himself to annoy the other guy again. But to be approached by Steve is rare. Usually it’s just Billy making some stupid comment or joke on Steve’s behalf in the halls or teasing him about the Wheeler girl or slamming his locker shut before he’s done using it. When they really get into an occasional fight he steers clear for a bit. But really, with how much time he ends up getting roped into hanging out with the band of nerds, he never ends up avoiding Steve fully. Especially not for very long.

So when Steve, brown doe eyes drooping and dark around the edges, approaches him the week after the party he’s honestly a little surprised. He figured he’d really scared him off with the stunt he pulled in the kitchen. 

Because hanging out at the quarry, angst ridden and bitter, smoking and drinking and sometimes falling asleep in Steve’s Beemer doesn’t make them friends. Because egging each other on and an occasional punch and creepy, mystic conversations that avoid what each boy actually wants to say doesn’t make them friends. It makes them depressed, damaged teenagers who don’t have anyone else.

“Will’s been hounding me,” Steve says around a cigarette, “To hang out with you more or whatever. Seems to think that since we’re the only ones our age not grouped up that we gotta be best friends or some shit,” There’s a pause, Steve obviously not finished but gathering up the courage to say whatever comes next, “So. Wanna come over Friday? After dinner. I’ve got weed.”

The light rain around them from where they are hidden under the bleachers dampens the ground enough to make the ugly brown grass slippery. There are still remnants of snow piles near the parking lot and Billy can’t stand it. Hawkins might be the tiniest bit bearable if it’s summer. Steve covers the end of his cigarette from the occasional drops that make it through the cracks.

Billy really can’t pass up free weed, so of course he agrees. Especially because Harrington's always got good shit.

 

Dinner that week consists of a lot of Will’s elbow connecting harshly with Billy’s side. Later, after a particularly sharp elbow when they’re seated around the main room of the cabin with plates of food in their laps, Billy whispers viciously, “What the fuck, kid?”

Will just laughs and shrugs his boney little shoulders, “You were staring at him.”

“I was not,” Billy growls, because he definitely was not staring at Harrington and his stupid fluffy hair and stupid pink lips.

Will elbows him again. “Still doing it,” he says simply. If Will’s been doing that in response to staring, then Billy’s been staring at Steve _a lot_. A lot more than he thought. Which is stupid, because he’s not some Hawkins cow with a crush. He doesn’t even really like Harrington. He doesn’t really like _anyone._ There’s just something about him that draws Billy in at every chance. 

Billy Hargrove is easy confidence and fiery fights and harsh masculinity. He fucks people, he does not have crushes. Not anymore. He knows better than that.

He’s not some girl who wants Steve Fucking Harrington to go steady with him. He just wants to kiss him stupid every time he sees him. And to pull his hair so hard that he gasps and moans. And then to punch his lights out, because the guy still gets under his skin even if they’ve been hanging out a lot and not going straight to beating the shit out of each other at every opportunity.

But he does not have a _crush,_ like the Byers kid is so insistent on.The kid is too stuck on what he said on the back porch that night. That he could be. But it’s not a possibility. Not with how he’s reacted both times Billy’s gotten too close to fucking up their truce with his runaway lips.

“Let it go, kid, it’s not like that.”

“He’s been staring just as many times as you have,” Will says, “More actually. Tonight you’re at twenty-two and he’s up to twenty-six.”

“What the fuck. You’ve been counting? You need a better fuckin’ hobby, kid.”

Will just looks at him with those big, too-old eyes and smiles. The kid is way too perceptive. 

“Billium Hargrove! Stop trying to corrupt Will! He’s too pure for you and your grimy hands!” The Henderson kid interrupts from across the room, much too loudly for the size of the cabin. 

“You did not just call me ‘Billium’, dumbass.”

The kid just laughs, curls bouncing, “Hey! How’m I supposed to know what your full name is?”

Steve is snickering behind his hand, trying not to look like he’s as pleased as he is with Dustin. Now that it’s clear that Billy isn’t planning on beating the shit out of the kids anymore, even Lucas, Steve’s a fan of egging them and their stupid jokes on. 

Billy can’t stand how good Steve looks with a laugh bubbling from behind his teeth. It makes the purple bags under his eyes not look quite as bruised, the tiredness behind them almost disappearing for a second. If Billy liked the other guy, he might even call that moment of laughter outlined by pale yellow light _beautiful._

But Billy’s not anywhere near that.

One of Billy’s eyebrows raises, unimpressed. He glances dramatically at Will before looking back to Dustin. “What’s his full name, smartass?”

“Oh, now my ass is smart! Hear that Steve?” The Henderson kid elbows the guy next to him roughly. Steve shoves him back with a rough _Hey!_. Much to Billy’s pleasure, Henderson almost topples off where he’s perched on the arm of the couch.

“Keep egging him on and I doubt your ass’ll be smart much longer,” Harrington laughs through a mouthful of food. 

Their eyes connect for a long moment, Steve smiling as he chews a bigger bite than socially acceptable. The only time Billy sees Harrington’s dull eyes look full of life is when they’re here. There’s damage there, hidden under Steve’s old popularity and a flask most of the time, and Billy can see it because it matches his. Though he doubts it’s the same damage, he wants to know what it is. What could be so bad for King Steve that he finds comfort in the inky black water of the quarry, the bottom of a bottle, the protection of a bat stabbed through with nails, the ease of laughter with young teenagers too smart for their own good?

Billy would love to find out. It intrigues him, draws him in in a way that only Steve can really do.

 

After Billy drops Max off at the Hargrove house with another promise of an excuse, he heads to Harrington’s. The Beemer isn’t in the driveway when he arrives, likely because he drives way faster than Steve would dare. And Steve had more kids to drop off. 

When Steve finally arrives at his own home, Billy’s already at the door, leaning casually on its frame. His arm is supporting

“Took you long enough,” he says casually, not moving so that Steve has to physically push past him to open the door. 

“Fuck off,” Steve responds, rolling his eyes, “You know what they’re like.”

“Do I?” Billy licks his lips, slow and teasing because he knows it pushes Steve’s buttons. 

Steve pushes him rougher than he needs to as he steps through the door frame, a harsh shoulder knocking into Billy’s chest. The venom is there, but subdued. Not what it would’ve been three or four months ago. 

They smoke out by the pool, again, until their limbs are loose and heavy and the general tension dampened. 

The stale, grassy taste of marijuana on his tongue reminds him of the beach. Reminds him of the people he called friends, who surfed and smoked till their lungs gave out like he did. People who could keep up with Billy. The type of people Billy would never find in Hawkins, Indiana. It also reminds him of the time he came home high off his ass just two days after they moved here and got his ass beat for it. 

His dad could see it in his eyes, even if the smell had mostly faded from his clothes. Max had already been in bed, so Neil really only cared to be quiet enough not to wake her. “Already wasting your life and getting high. We’ve not even been here seventy-two hours and you’re already disrespecting this family.”

Neil’s arm caught his windpipe before he could finish spitting out, “We’re not a family.”

Billy’s back hit the wall hard, but not hard enough to bruise. It was easy to tell what damage would cause a bruise after years of practice. He knew better than to claw at the arm holding pressure to his throat, because that meant he was weak and would only cause the arm to press in harder. Neil pressed until Billy’s vision started to fade around the edges.

“You will respect me, and your _family,_ in this house.”

And just because Billy may be a rebellious shit with a self destructive streak, doesn’t mean he didn’t know when to give. Especially when it came to Neil. So he had just said, “Yes, sir.” Even if the words were acidic on his lips. 

There hadn’t been any bruises that night, because Neil’s army training taught him better. There were really only visible bruises when Neil was drunk or Billy really didn’t know when to quit. When Billy was punishing himself for something, and craved the taste of blood. Not that he knew what he was doing.

The memory clouds Billy’s bright eyes, so he takes a longer drag than he should. He lets it run to his head, make his brain spin and wobble for a second before passing the blunt back to Steve. 

“Where’d you just go?” Steve asks, because he’s stupid and curious and it almost sounds like he _cares._ “Because you sure as hell weren’t here.”

“None of your fucking business, Harrington,” he slurs, low and mean. Ready for a fight. Ready for anything, really. Besides, who is Harrington to talk? The guy is never paying attention to anything. His moods can turn on a dime.

The bruises on Billy’s face are healing up nicely, the bone and cartilage in his nose stitching back together. He could go for some more. But the weed make his limbs sluggish and it takes a lot more work as of late to get Steve ready for a fight. 

He pushes anyway. 

“You’re such a douche, you know, I’m trying to get this fucking _enigma_ that is Billy Fuckin’ Hargrove. So maybe I don’t want to kill you every time I see you, do what Will fuckin’ wants,” Steve’s rambling, tongue thick and heavy, unsure what he’s even saying at this point, “And you make it so fuckin’ hard. Because you’re a _douche._ And an asshole. You’re always different. Why’re you only such a fucking asshole when you’re with me. Why can’t you always be who you are with 

He swears a lot when he’s high, Billy’s noticed.

“Is this rant going anywhere, princess?” He whispers, cool and confident even if anger bubbles up in his chest at the insults. It’s more fun to push Steve, get him to throw the first punch or initiate _something_ than it is to just start a fight himself.

Steve sloppily gets to his feet, crossing the foot difference to lean over Billy in his chair. Like he’s trying to be intimidating, confident. Even if his wide eyes scream anything but confident whenever he gets within reach of Billy. They’re uneasiness swimming in uncertainty. Harrington catches the open side of Billy’s shirt -which it is still not warm enough to be wearing outside without a jacket, but hell if that’s going to stop him, Billy Hargrove can’t be taken down by a little bit of cold when he is a fire raging from the inside out- and drags him up. Shockingly dominant and angry. 

“Which one is the real Hargrove?” Steve asks, like he hadn’t meant for those words to slip out. 

Billy’s hand slips up to roughly grip the collar of Steve’s sweater, dragging him down. “What makes you think there’s a real one, princess? What makes you think you _deserve_ to know?” He asks, low and sultry, fire behind sharp teeth. Only dulled by THC and what could possibly considered lust. Billy’s caught between dragging Steve down further into a kiss and throwing him off with a hard fist.

It’s a game of chicken, really. Who will be the first to give. To punch or shove or kiss. They both know one will happen, it is just who will start it. 

“I fucking hate you,” Steve growls, so unlike who he is around the kids, “For making me do this.”

Steve pulls him up the last few inches rough and unforgiving. Smashes their lips together not unlike the night they first kissed, hard and angry and mean. Billy shoves him off, standing but keeping a hand fisted in Steve’s sweater. He only allows the hurt and anger flash through Steve’s much too expressive eyes for a second before pushing him back roughly into glass pool door. Trapping him between hard glass and a harder body. Using the muscle he’s worked so hard for to his advantage.

“This what you wanted, _King Steve?_ ” He growls, pushing further. 

Steve wraps his hand around Billy’s neck, firm pressure on the back as he drags him back in. “Yes,” he says, surprised he said it aloud. But he figures that’s what happens when you get high out of your mind.

The kiss is violent clashing teeth and angry tongues, rough fighting for control and sharp hips. Steve grunts as he tries to flip them, to trap Billy instead of allowing himself to be the one caught. But Billy’s downright stacked and Steve really doesn’t stand a chance. So his hand falls to Billy’s hip, his ass, drawing him closer as the kiss calms itself.

Billy fucks like he fights, kisses like he fights, lives like he fights. Hard and rough and taking. Steve doesn’t give in, doesn’t cave to what Billy wants like he’s supposed to. Tries to take control for himself. 

When the hand grips Billy’s clothed ass, he pauses, “You sure ‘bout that, pretty boy?” He whispers before taking Steve’s bottom lips harshly in his teeth. 

Steve groans as Billy pulls minutely away again, “Fuck, yes.” The hand not on Billy’s ass fumbles with the door until it slides behind him. They all but fall through the doorway, legs tangled and heavy from lust and drugs. They make it to the living room couch before sloppily falling onto it. They roll to the floor in a mess of limbs, and luckily for Steve he ends up on top. His leg slides between Billy’s, rubbing hard on the other teen’s growing erection. 

“Thought you weren’t a fag,” Billy growls as he rolls his hips up sharply.

“Thought you weren’t either,” Steve moans as Billy’s teeth catch his throat in a way that borders on sadistic.

“Guess we’re both fucking liars, then.” 

Billy’s hands slide down, grabbing Steve’s supple ass before he flips them. Steve is all elbows and knees, as graceful as a baby deer on ice. They land hard on the carpet, Billy’s muscular chest pinning Steve down as they grind together. Their lips catch in hot, sloppy kisses, harsh and teeth filled.

When Billy comes up for air, Steve is looking absolutely fucked. His kiss bitten lips are red and parted, panting heavily. He moans loudly with a particularly hard roll of Billy’s hips. One of his legs has been flung around Billy’s waist, dragging him down harder. 

Steve tugs Billy’s shirt from where it’s tucked into his pants, scratching hard with his fingernails and revelling in how Billy’s back arches into it. He figures anyone with eyes could guess that Billy’s a bit of a masochist. It doesn’t take long for Billy to be shoving up Steve’s shirt and sliding his hand unceremoniously down his jeans. Steve moans as the rough, calloused hand encloses his cock, bucking his hips into it. With a sharp bite to the sensitive skin where Steve’s neck meets his shoulder, Billy shoves Steve’s pants down far enough to free his dick. He’s blocked from seeing what’s happening, bt judging by the sudden lack jean against his cock and the hot heat of another on his hip, Billy’s done the same to himself.

As Billy spits in his hand and captures both cocks in it, pumping roughly, it’s painfully obvious that this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Steve becomes more passive, knowing he’s outmatched, at least at this. Grunting and pushing his hips up into Billy’s long strokes, he continues to drag his nails down the other guy’s back. When Billy’s pulled roughly down by the neck his hand gets trapped, so he just starts thrusting, not letting himself be discouraged by Steve’s desire to be have a mouth covering his own.

Their kiss is hot and wet, Billy sucking and biting as they move together. Billy figures he could duck down and give Steve the best head he’s ever gotten, because he’s damn good at giving blowjobs and he knows it, but they’re already so close and this fighting fuck is too good to stop.

Because Billy fucks like he fights, he half wants to slow down, to tease, to make Steve go crazy. But this fast paced, violent clash of bodies is amazing in such a different way that he doesn’t. Won’t do anything that could make it stop. Nothing to let them come to their senses and stop before they’ve gone so far they can’t go back and fucked everything up.

Steve’s hands shudder on Billy’s back, nails digging in sharply. It’s easy for Billy to tell what’s going to happen next so he speeds up his thrusts, moves his trapped hand around the heads of their cocks. The warning Steve gives is unnecessary, but it pushes Billy closer. The way Steve bites into his shoulder, hard and hot and unforgiving, shoves Billy over the edge and his cum mixes with Steve’s between them. There’s going to be a mark on his shoulder, he revels in the deep, dull ache that remains when Steve’s teeth leave.

After a beat of rest, Billy sits up, still between Steve’s legs. He tucks himself away, not caring that there’s a mess of come on his dick and stomach. The silence of the room is crushing as they fill it with their heavy breaths. Billy can’t tear his eyes off the body beneath him, spent and looking so fucked even if he hadn’t been. Steve’s hair is a mess and his lips and neck are bitten and bruised. He won’t look up at Billy.

“You ruined my shirt, dickhead,” Steve says, voice filled with disgust as he carefully peels off the offended clothing.

“Pretty sure it’s half your jizz, too, pretty boy.”

Steve just groans at that. He looks incredibly offended as Billy uses his discarded sweater to clean off his own stomach, and it just makes Billy cackle wickedly. Steve rolls away and tucks himself back into his pants as Billy tries to stand up and immediately regrets it. Turns out he’s a lot higher than he expected. They fucked through the beginning of his high, and how the room is spinning more than it should as he props himself on the couch. 

With his head in his hands, Steve groans, “I’m too fucking high for this bullshit.”

“Damn, princess, that all it takes?” Billy sneers like he isn’t feeling the exact same way. Without the distraction of another body and getting himself off, he can actually focus on how far gone he is.

“I’m gonna get a new shirt,” Steve says, ignoring Billy’s commentary and standing incredibly slowly. Or maybe it just looks really slow? Billy’s not sure. How much did they smoke? Billy hadn’t thought it was that much. Maybe it’s just the sex talking. 

“Don’t leave,” Steve commands after a long pause. It should be intimidating, that’s how he meant it, because they both knew Billy wanted to bolt and that he’s too high to drive. But it comes off as soft and almost insecure instead. 

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” Billy replies, knowing full well that he would love to leave, to run from whatever this was going to become. To avoid talking about this. To pretend it never happened. Even if it was some amazing sex. “I’m high as balls.”

“The fuck does that even mean, dude?” Steve rolls his eyes from where he’s standing against the wall for support. After another pause that seems to stretch to infinity, he hesitantly adds, “Actually, come to bed with me.”

Billy laughs wickedly, “What makes you think I’m the cuddle-after-a-fuck kind of guy, Harrington?” 

Steve groans again, dragging a hand through wrecked hair, “Nothing. But I am. And you’re gonna wrap your car around a tree if you leave now,” he pauses for a second, looking at Billy, really looking at him for the first time since they finished, “And I’ll never hear the end of it from the dweebs if I let you die right as they started liking you.”

They both burst into laughter at that, even though it’s not that funny. But the weed fuels it and it cuts some of the horrible, awkward tension that’s thick in the air.

“We gonna talk about it?” Steve asks when they’ve calmed down.

Billy responds with a simple “No.” Because he’d honestly rather die than talk about his feelings or some shit like that.

As they crawl into Steve’s bed, heavy with post-orgasm exhaustion and their THC fueled haze, Billy tries not to think about how it’s actually kind of nice that Steve kind of wants him to stay. He tries not to think about how he’s going to put an end to this. How everything in this stupid small town is too interconnected and how that makes this dangerous. 

How even if he wanted to, he couldn’t stay, he couldn’t do this.

Steve falls asleep almost immediately, faster than he has in months, and Billy turns away when the other teen reaches out for him. It would be nice, to be held for a second, but he can’t. He won’t. Billy Hargrove is anger and red hot rage, taking and selfish, he is not cuddles after sex and talking about his _feelings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh had to up the story rating for this one. 
> 
> Feel free to ignore this it's just the author rambling about Billy's character and his own bad home life lmao.
> 
> So I really like the idea that Billy's mood and actions change on a dime with very little provoking them. It's shown in cannon with the scene in the car with Max outside the middle school (which I know a lot of people interpreted as Billy being a racist pos but I'm going with Dacre's interpretation of that scene bc that's what I thought when I first watched it. That Billy literally just witnessed Lucas make max feel like shit and that's what he meant by "people like that" or w/e he said, because the dude's a victim of abuse and so am I and that's probably similar to how I would've reacted back in the day if I just witnessed my bother getting 'picked on' or w/e). Whoops that's way to long for brackets but I don't care.
> 
> Anyway I love writing Billy even if it pains me to say anything bad about the winter and Midwest. He really reminds me of how I was before I was able to move out of my dad's house and it's almost cathartic to work through some of my own shit that I mostly push down now that I am a very different person. While I was never really shitty to other people like Billy, I had so much pent up anger and now that I've been out of the house for three years and out of the country for one, my life is so much better and I no longer have crazy, explosive, self destructive tendencies. So that's kinda what I'm planning for Billy and his redemption.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve-centric this time! I wasn't really planning on anything this long being Steve-centric, but it just worked so well. 
> 
> And in the words of Dexter Holland, these kids aren't alright.

Steve wakes up to Billy hastily trying to sneak out of bed. It takes him a minute to register what’s happening, because usually when he wakes up it’s from his own screaming. He catches Billy’s wrist where it’s planted on the bed near Steve’s head. Holds steady as Billy attempts to shake him off. 

“Where’re you going?” He slurs, tongue heavy with sleep. 

“Home,” Billy says, devoid of any emotion, of anything. So unlike his usual myriad of tones, all obvious in their intention.

“Stay, instead. Gonna wrap your car around a tree,” Steve insists, even though he knows neither one of them is still high.

“No.” It’s firm, bordering on mean. But through the pale yellow of the back light they forgot to turn off seeping through the windows, Steve can see the lack of usual confidence in Billy’s bright eyes, dulled in the darkness. He wonders how hard he would have to push to break him. Wonders if he could be put back together after. If what is under the exterior cocky confidence is damaged beyond repair or just waiting to be pieced together.

“C’mon, dude, it’s four in the morning,” Steve’s voice is bordering on desperate and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand that it feels like Billy, biggest piece of shit at Hawkins High, was the only thing keeping his nightmares at bay for the night. Can’t stand that even though the guy grates on every nerve like it’s his job, he still wants him to stay in bed until the morning. Until Steve can think straight enough to not feel like his Nancy-damaged heart is being thrown to the ground again. 

It was just sex. There were no promises of anything else. Steve was a fool to think anything else. It was Billy Fucking Hargrove, after all. Most of the time, Steve doubts that the guy’s got feelings other than rage, confidence, and close to contentment. The problem is, though, Steve hadn’t thought about it until Billy’s there ending it. There hadn’t been time to expect anything. Sure, he got caught of Billy’s lips and tongue and rolling muscles, but he never let himself go there. 

Maybe they were just using each other, for sex and fists and a decent night’s sleep. Maybe Steve doesn’t want to be used. But maybe he wants nothing more than a good distraction.  
He’d never even let himself think that this would happen, because he’s not even sure he wanted it. Sure, he really fucking wanted it when it was happening, when Billy was crowding him and the only thing that Steve could see, breath, smell, feel, _think_ was Billy. But in the light of day, the whole thing seemed like a shit idea. But it wasn’t the light of day, not yet, and Steve really just wants him to _stay._ Mindless and selfish, to stay in bed so he can sleep and stay in this bubble before his life goes back to monotonous bullshit. To stay in bed so he can pretend that nothing matters outside, that the world didn’t almost end last fall and that he isn’t still fucked up by it.

Billy just stares at him, harsh and unforgiving. Outlined in dull yellow, he looks like he could be an angel. A vengeful, angry angel of an angrier god. “No,” Billy stays softly, like it’s the only thing he can. He is so different here, trapped in this twilight zone that is Steve’s bedroom. Trapped in this place that has almost been completely separated from the rest of the world. The world around them is asleep, no one of sound mind awake to witness this moment other than the two of them.

Steve wonders if this moment is even real, if it will still have happened when the sun rises over the looming trees of Hawkins. Wonders if tomorrow, when neither teen wants to remember this, if it will have really happened. If everyone forgets something, did it even happen in the first place? How much pushing does it take to suppress this?

When Steve doesn’t let the blonde get out of his grip, he can practically see the fire flare up behind those blue eyes. “Let me go,” Billy commands, voice barely above a whisper, harsh and mean.

“No,” Steve echoes him, just to show him how stupid and childish he sounds as he says it.

The air changes with Billy’s mood. The room darkens in a way that has nothing to do with the light outside. 

“You were a nice lay, pretty boy, but this isn’t happening again.”

It gets the job done. Steve lets him go, lets him take off out of the room and eventually the house. Like Billy is a bird caged too tightly for too long. He wonders if that is exactly what Billy is, in Hawkins. A bird, trapped in a cage too small for what he is, waiting to be set free. To fly away and never return. 

He wonders if he actually means what he says, ever. 

It was just sex. Nothing more. Steve doesn’t get to do this after just sex.

 

He wasn’t _expecting_ to feel like he’s being crushed as Billy leaves. Wasn’t expecting any of this. Not the wave of dread, drowning him in a sea of everything that just happened in the past nine hours. Drowning him in the wild ocean that is Billy, twisting and turning. He is not the calm before the storm, and neither is this. He is the storm, wild and angry, threatening to drown anyone that gets near him. 

If Steve drowns, it’s his own fault for getting too close. He can see the storm from miles away, but he can’t help but be drawn to it. To him. The threat of drowning only fueling the draw of danger. 

Sleep won’t come to him after being woken in this way, and he knows it, so he watches Billy’s tail lights disappear from the living room window.

The sun rises eventually, as Steve smashes his spiked bat into the trees behind his house. 

The phone rings inside at an ungodly hour. Dustin is the only person rude enough to call so early, so Steve lets it ring and ring, even as Dustin calls back a third and fourth time. Eventually he gives up, only to show up in the backyard an hour later on his bike.

“What the hell, man,” Dustin yells at him, bike clattering down in the grass. “You look like shit.” When Steve doesn’t respond, bat still slung over his shoulder and a glare on his face, Dustin continues, “El radioed this morning. Apparently Billy came over at six and went batshit on that punching bag they’ve got outside. Hopper had to pin him down before he started breaking his knuckles too bad or something. She was totally freaked out. Or, well, as freaked out as someone who literally killed monsters and people can get by a human.”

When Steve still doesn’t react, Dustin just plows on through his story. Sometimes, with Dustin, Steve wonders if he even has to say anything, ever, with how much the kid loves to hear the sound of his own voice. “So then Max radios. Apparently he never went home last night. And she let it slip that he came here last night after Hopper’s. So what the fuck happened?”

Steve’s still stuck on the fact that Billy was apparently missing for two hours of the morning. Because what the fuck was he doing for those two hours if he wasn’t at home or the cabin? It’s not like there’s a lot of places to go in Hawkins. And what made him mad enough to have to be restrained? It’s not unlike Billy to beat the shit out of something, but to go so far Hopper actually got worried? That meant something. Something that was not good.

“Nothing happened,” Steve lies, blatant and obvious.

“Bullshit.”

“Dustin, your mother’s gonna kill me if you keep swearing so much.”

“Don’t change the subject. Besides, I’m not stupid enough to swear in front of her.”

“Fine!” Steve says, exasperated. He runs a hand through his thoroughly messed up hair, pulling it a little to ground himself. “We just got into a fight, is all.”

Dustin’s a dog with a bone though, he won’t let Steve get away with that vague story. “And?” 

If Steve wasn’t such an outstanding citizen, he’d smack that stupid, inquisitive look off Dustin’s face. “And he left! Okay? He wasn’t mad when he left.” Which isn’t exactly a lie, but it sure as hell isn’t the truth. Billy was mad that it happened, or something, but not mad enough to beat the hell out of something.

“When?” Dustin demands. The kid is too curious for his own good.

“Four.”

“You were fighting at four in the morning?” Dustin asks suspiciously. 

“Something like that, yeah.” Steve doesn’t know exactly what he’s supposed to do in this situation. Lucky for him though, he doubts Dustin’s ever heard of being gay in any way other than derogatory, so he probably won’t go there.

“You two are fuckin’ weird.”

Steve just groans and rubs his tired eyes.

“Drive me to the cabin? Mike called a party meeting. He just wants to hang out with El after she got all weird this morning, though. We gotta get Max and Lucas too, I promised.”

Steve just groans louder at that, “What made you think that I’m your personal chauffeur?”

Dustin just laughs at him and his exhaustion.

“Fine. But I’m making coffee first.”

So that’s how Steve ended up with an open mug of hot coffee and three barely teens in his Beemer early on a Saturday morning. 

“Why isn’t Billy driving your boney ass around?” He throws at Max as she climbs in, all elbows and knees, almost knocking Steve’s coffee onto his lap. 

“Dunno where he is,” she says, with a particularly wild flail of the skateboard she totes everywhere. The one Billy gave her, incidentally. “He hasn’t come home yet.”

Which means, _fuck,_ he’s probably still at the cabin. Where Steve is bringing the kids. Where there’s no room to avoid him, no room for the explosion that is completely possible.

Great. This day just keeps getting better and better for Steve Harrington.

The drive through country roads consists of white knuckles on the steering wheel and Steve frantically trying to figure out how he’s going to get out of this. How there’s really no hope for him. Billy could easily be prepping for another fight, and though Steve’s proven enough times that he won’t shy from flying fists, he really isn’t a match for even an injured Billy. Especially not a particularly rage filled, injured Billy. At least there will be witnesses if he gets murdered. He wonders if Max still has any of the drugs from the Byers’ on her. It’s far fetched, but it saved his pretty face last time.

He doesn’t prepare himself for any version of Billy that isn’t ready to beat his face in, because Steve’s still not fully convinced the guy’s got emotions other than rage. Even when he’s seen Billy around El and at the quarry and helping Joyce around the kitchen and filled with lust and heard of the Billy he was riding waves from Max. He still doesn’t know what to believe. 

It’s not that Billy was particularly enraged when he left the Harrington house, but anything could’ve happened in those two hours. Which have now stretched into five. He could’ve come to his senses and blamed Steve for what happened. Steve’s not sure if it his fault. Because he knows he likes guys sometimes, but maybe he was wrong in his assumption that Billy had done that before. That his cool confidence and easy brushing off of Steve meant something else. Maybe Steve took advantage of the situation. Maybe Billy’s going to beat his face in for being a ‘fag’ in his own words. 

He has no clue how to feel about anything. He only knows that everything good in his life goes to shit, so why wouldn’t that include amazing sex with Billy?

When they get to the cabin, Steve doesn’t make a move to get out of the car. Max sticks back with him, pushing the boys out with a promise to join them quickly. She clambers over the central console, and Steve thanks whatever god is out there that he finished his coffee before they stopped. She really didn’t get any of Billy’s easy grace and casual awareness of his body.

“What should I expect?” She asks, calm and collected. Her blue eyes shine bright and intense, dulled fire compared to her step-brother’s. It’s still shocking to see how similar their eyes are for people who aren’t related by blood.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well then what happened last night? I’m pretty good at guessing his reactions,” she’s not about to let it go, turning those wild eyes on Steve from the passenger seat.

“We fought. Simple as that,” he really hopes he’s becoming a good liar.

“What kind of fight?” She asks, obviously knowing more than she should, her lips quirking up in a smirk. “I don’t see any bruises on you, pretty boy, ‘cept right there.” She points to her own neck and quirks an eyebrow. She really is her brother’s sister. He wonders if she knows how she sounds _exactly_ like Billy in this moment.

Steve barely has time to register that she just called him by her brother’s pet name. “Fuck!” His hand scrambles up to his neck as he roughly pulls down the visor to look at himself in the little mirror hidden there. Sure enough, there’s a purple-red bruise sucked into the surface of his throat, right out in the open. Fuck Billy, seriously. How could he have been so stupid? Surely everyone would notice eventually, they weren’t all as oblivious as Dustin could be, and he didn’t have a cover story now.

He tries an excuse anyway, “That’s not what you think it is.” Stupid. That was stupid, and definitely not working on Max since she’s biting her lip to keep herself from laughing.

She tosses him a stick of concealer from her backpack, and he looks at her like quizzically. She just points at her own neck again and rolls her eyes. So Steve starts sloppily rolling the stuff on. It looks horrible, but better than a giant hickey. It’s doubtful that the kids will notice the make up at least.

“Relax,” Max is saying, rolling her eyes, “No one was paying any attention to you.” But she’s obviously put two and two together. “So you’re gay, too, then?”

“What?” Steve’s lucky he’s shocked that she would just straight up ask it like that, because it makes him sound shocked at the actual content of the question. “No. Wait? Too?”

“So that’s what his temper tantrum is about? You’re an idiot, by the way.” And she does not say it in that endearing way Nancy used to. 

“What do you mean?” Steve wonders if he’s still a little high or just stupid, because he still isn’t following. 

“What do you mean what do I mean?”

“Billy’s…?” He trails off, not willing to actually say it out loud. Not willing to put his hopes out there. Because he hadn’t suspected that he’d ever really had a chance. Because getting caught up in a fight doesn’t really mean anything.

He wanted this, more than this since they first kissed in the snow. But he never actually entertained it’d be anything more than a passing little fantasy. Steve Harrington is doomed for a boring, dead-end life, stuck in Hawkins and married to a woman with two kids. He had hoped it would be Nancy, but she fucked him over. The part of him that thought Billy Built-Like-A-Greek-God Hargrove was fuckable would stay pushed down for the rest of his life. Because he’s in Hawkins, and he’s not smart enough nor passionate enough to get out. 

“You have got to be the dumbest guy in Hawkins, Steve. Yes. Billy’s gay. He thinks I don’t know. That it isn’t obvious.”

“It isn’t.” 

“You’re just stupid, and we’re in Indiana. In California, it’s obvious. He got his ass beat real bad for it, more than once, even though it’s nineteen eighty-six. So If you’re gonna decide to spread it around, think about that first. And if you do, I’ll won’t take him down for you when he tries to kill you again.” Maxine Mayfield is a spitfire. Steve never really noticed, before. Because he really wasn’t the kind of guy to hang out with thirteen year old girls. But she is shockingly like Billy, the fire and heat, with less of the damage. Less of the pure rage. 

He voices this opinion, “You’re a lot like him, you know?”

“I am not. Keep it,” she says, shoving his hand with the concealer in it back, “I don’t want it, and you need it.”

He sighs, unwilling to fight with a little girl, “Fine. Thanks.”

Max rolls her eyes at him, like he’s the child here. “Just, don’t lead him on. Okay? _If_ you really aren’t. Which I don’t believe, by the way. He might be a giant douche, but he doesn’t deserve that.”

“I know,” Steve keeps himself from sighing again, because it feels like too many times already. 

“And whatever happened last night, you gotta fix it. Because I’m starting to like him again, and you are not going to ruin that for me.’

“Fine, bossy, I’ll talk to him.”

She smirks like she knows she won. Which he supposes she did. He wonders what Billy would do if he saw her like this, protecting _him,_ and his feelings. He doubts he’ll ever see it. Because that’s not how Billy and Max’s relationship is, or is becoming. They are picking on and teasing each other, much more evenly as of late. But they both protect each other in secret. They both wouldn’t be caught dead doing it by the other, though. Sometimes, Steve wonders if Max even takes offence to being compared to Billy anymore.

With that, Max flies from the car and into the cabin where all her friends are. Steve follows, only because he doesn’t want to catch hell from the kids later if he flees like he wants. The Camaro is parked haphazardly on the grass near the Beemer, and Steve makes note of how neither one is blocked in by the other, this time.

The walk to the door feels like the walk to his execution. Though, Steve’s always had a flare for catastrophizing. His life is full of end times, though, so who can blame him?

The second he steps over the threshold of the front door, the back one slams shut. Six thumbs point to it, Max giving him a look that means business.

He groans in frustration, but follows Billy out anyway. Much to his surprise, Billy’s on the porch smoking a cigarette like his life depends on it. His hands are absolutely _fucked,_ blood soaking through the white cotton covering his knuckles. They are stiff as he brings the cigarette to his pale lips, painful and swollen. Billy doesn’t even flinch. Looks like he likes it. Likes the pain of destroyed hands and the burn of a cigarette.

The silence is awkward, and Steve absentmindedly wonders if the kids are listening in like they did after they had this conversation the first time. They haven’t had any time to process. Steve took his bat to the trees, and Billy did god knows what before attempting to end his basketball career with a punching bag.

“Forget it, right?” Billy asks, voice gruff from smoke and something Steve can’t quite place, “Didn’t happen. You’re not a faggot. Consider it forgotten.” Billy doesn’t look back at him as he says it, most of the usual confidence and bravado absent from his words. Steve wonders if he’s too tired to play himself up. If he’s already taken all his anger out of something that wasn’t Steve’s face. 

Honestly, Steve’s just surprised he’s not getting a beat down right now. Not even a threat of one, either. Yet. There’s still time.

“If that’s what you want.” He’s too sick of the day already to fight more.

“That’s what _you_ want, isn’t it?” Because even feeling like death itself, Billy has to push.

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“So what? What do you want? Do you want to fuck, have a _relationship?_ Do you want to go steady with a bloke, _King Steve?_ ” Billy spits it like it disgusts him. Like there could be nothing worse than what he’s insinuating.

“Maybe I just want to see what happens.”

“No you don’t,” Billy growls, still not looking at Steve, “You don’t fucking get it.”

“Then fucking explain it! I don’t get any of this, alright? ” They’re getting too loud, too angry to be so close to the house where anyone could hear. “But I don’t think I want to forget about last night. It was fucking _good,_ Billy.” When he says his name, it registers that it might be the first time he’s actually used it. 

Billy spins to face him, blue eyes fierce and burning, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. “You don’t want this. You want a bitch to settle down with and pump full of babies. You don’t want any of this. You don’t know what this _fucking is. _” Fire burns through him, threatening to overflow and spill from his lips.__

__“Stop telling me what I want.” Steve’s getting heated, now, because everyone is always telling him what he wants and he can’t stand it. “Maybe I want to kiss you and fuck you and see what fucking happens.”_ _

__Billy sucks in a sharp breath, calculating. Eyes flick around Steve’s face, trying to find his tell. Trying to catch him lying._ _

__“Do you,” Billy pauses, because he really never could avoid adding more drama than necessary, “know why we moved here?”_ _

__“No, Billy, I don’t,” Steve surrenders. Steve always surrenders eventually. He rubs his eyes because he’s too fucking tired to deal with this. He should’ve had more coffee._ _

__

__The rush of the ocean, loud in Billy’s ears. The taste of salt on his tongue, heavy from another boy’s lips. Hot sand beneath their bodies, soft and smooth. He had been in love, or close to it, young and innocent. In love with the other boy, in love with the ocean and his surfboard, in love with the hot sun tanning his skin, in love with California._ _

__They floated in the crystal blue water after school like clockwork during the year. Everyday that summer, dashing down the shore, boards in tow as they dove beneath the surface. They would paddle to an unknown cove and watch the sunset hand in hand, kissing without a care in the world. Like they were the only two people that mattered in the world._ _

__“You aren’t my first,” Billy’s hand flaps a little awkwardly, refusing to say it._ _

__“I know,” Steve looks lost, feet away from the other boy but seeming miles instead. His hand resting on the back of his own neck._ _

__It took a pause, a deep breath, and breaking eye contact for Billy to continue. “I had a friend. Back in Cali,” his words are stilted, uncomfortable, “My dad, he caught us on the pier. We weren’t even doing anything. Nothing real, at least.”_ _

__They were watching the sun disappear behind the edge of the ocean, bare shoulders brushing as they laughed over ice cream sticky fingers. Chocolate eyes crumpled as the corners of his mouth turned up, fingers brushed tan skin just above the wetsuit that hung half off Billy’s hips. Looking into the eyes of that boy, Billy knew what joy was._ _

__Billy was damaged then, but not broken. Not broken, yet._ _

__The heavy boot falls on wood had alerted Billy to Neil’s presence before his name was ever muttered in that quiet, restrained voice that Billy knew meant trouble. “I don’t think I’ve met your friend here before,” Neil had said, restrained, and suddenly the boy that Billy loved was too much. Too beautiful, too gay, too _male._ Neil gave him the look that meant ‘get your ass back home, now’ and had stormed away. Billy’s stomach was in knots as he said what he knew was his last goodbye, there on the pier, with his board under his arm and a look he couldn’t forget in his boy’s eyes. _ _

__“He beat me so bad Max thought I was dead when she called for an ambulance. That’s why this,” Billy waves his finger between himself and Steve harshly, “isn’t going to happen. Can’t happen.”_ _

__Steve’s hand slowly reaches out, attempting to comfort, his eyes wide like he hadn’t already known the nature of Billy’s relationship with his father. Like he hadn’t known what happens to guys like Billy. Like the two of them are _friends,_ like he somehow deserves to be the comfort Billy doesn’t want. _ _

__“ _Don’t,_ ” Billy snatches his arm away, out of the other teen’s reach, fire burning hot behind his eyes, “Touch me and I’ll beat your fucking face in.”_ _

__“Again.”_ _

__“Again,” Billy growls, eyes narrowed, wishing he could be left to lick his wounds in peace._ _

__Steve’s hand meets his shoulder anyway, light and feathery, like he isn’t sure if he actually wants to._ _

__“Harrington,” Billy warns, unsure if he means ‘stop’ or ‘please never stop’. It only makes Steve bolder._ _

__“So I’m Harrington now?” His tone teasing, but his hand steady and warm._ _

__“You’re not gonna like what happens,” Billy warns, but he doesn’t pull away, not yet. He lets himself enjoy it for a second. Even if it won’t last._ _

__“It’s gonna take a lot more than that to scare me, Hargrove.” Because he’s been scared of the dark, of his own damn pool, of the woods surrounding Hawkins for so long now._ _

__Steve has no clue what he’s doing. No clue what he really wants. He really only knows that he’s definitely like to have some more sex. He doesn’t know what it means when Billy stops talking. Doesn’t know what he’s signing up for. Just that he is signing up for it._ _

__He has no clue what happens next._ _

__But they stand in silence, gazing out into the woods, Steve’s hand steadying Billy even if the blond doesn’t want it to be. This whole thing just shows Steve how right he is about Billy and his enigma-ness._ _

__Hawkins could drown them, eat them alive, staring into the lost woods like this._ _

__When Billy finally finishes his cigarette, he pulls away and goes inside. Steve waits a second, confused, because he really doesn’t have any clue if they fixed things or made them worse. Why did he have to get so attached to anyone who gave him the time of day? Why couldn’t he just fuck and forget like Billy can?_ _

__When he makes his way inside, Billy’s ignoring him, conversing with El instead. She’s eyeing his broken hands like she doesn’t trust him to use them. Like she doesn’t trust him _not_ to use them, either. Steve wonders if he's started to see what she sees in him, now._ _

__Steve thinks those hands could be a good metaphor for Billy himself. That broken and bruised, bleeding knuckles caused by his own rage fit with what Billy Hargrove is. Hot pain and open rage and somewhere, deep down, broken in a way Steve doubts he’ll understand if he ever gets close enough to hear about it. But Steve’s broken too, in a different way, and maybe that’s what draws him close. What makes him so unwilling to let this go. Because maybe it’s about more than getting off, about more than angry fists, about more than a skateboard shoved through his window, about more than hating the world with someone else at the quarry, about more than bloody knuckles. That maybe, Steve can see past those broken fingers and see something that he just might like. Something strong and fierce and protective and still so fucking damaged. That Billy is a tornado, a wild ocean, the storm on the sea, and Steve might be okay with letting himself get lost in it._ _

__But English has never been Steve’s best class._ _

__And Billy is dangerous, something Nancy would frown at if she ever learned of what they did, what he felt when he looked at the broken boy doused in confidence that sat with El on the couch. Because he still can’t stand Billy. He still grates on every nerve Steve has. But he thinks maybe, just maybe, he could like him. Could even love him, in the way he loved Nancy, if he got the chance. But he’s always been a romantic, he’s never known what’s good for him. When he should run away instead of towards._ _

__Billy doesn’t show up to school that Monday._ _

__Steve tries to think that it doesn’t have anything to do with him._ _


	9. Chapter 9

He’s fucked up. He’s fucked it all up, and he knows it. The second he kissed Steve, or Steve kissed him and he didn’t protest (because he can’t actually remember who initiated their encounter) he fucked everything up.

Billy Hargrove does not _do_ boyfriends, or needy people who cant him to be something after sex, or boys with big brown doe eyes who look at him like he could _be_ something. Something other than what he is. Something other than fire and fury covering damage, self-inflicted and not.

He spent the two hours that morning in his Camaro speeding so fast he could feel control slipping away from him. Yelling with his too loud music until his bitterness at the fucked up situation he’d gotten himself into turned into the inevitable anger. Until the hint of sadness he felt from leaving Steve there in the dark of early morning morphed into rage. Until fire crept up the back of his throat and licked his teeth. The ride down long, winding country roads, tires slipping on cold asphalt served to ramp him up. To drive and drive, too fast and angry to ever be considered safe, until the needle of the gas gauge pointed to E.

Until he was no mad about everything in his damn life and the stupid town of Hawkins, Indiana that he pulled down the long driveway to the cabin so burnt up. So burnt up that when his fist hit the bag it was addicting. He couldn’t have stopped beating if he wanted to. He was ready to go until his fists were damaged beyond repair. 

He saw red when Hopped pulled him off, pinned him to the cold, wet ground outside. He was literally blind with fury, eventually, every hit only building up that rage. He’d flung wildly at Hopper for daring to intervene, scared El back into the cabin with only a glare. Though he wasn’t sure if she was scared or concerned. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting Hopper the fuck _off_ him.

When his breathing eventually evened out, chest still pressed into hard earth, he could feel the pain again. Hot and aching in his bruised hands, sharp and heavy in his back where Hopper’s weight had him pinned. He wasn’t let up until Hopper trusted he wouldn’t go batshit again, and getting him to believe that took a lot longer than actually necessary. 

Looking back, he’d never been so blindly mad like that, except for in the Byers’ when he beat Steve’s face in. Never lost control so badly since nor before then.

The common denominator in all of this being Steve. Of course. 

 

He goes to his first period Monday morning, then quickly dips to the nurse with the complaint of pain in his fucked up hands. Due to his boyish charm, sharp teeth, and shameless flirting, she’s convinced to give him a pass on the day. She lets him go home, surprisingly, and Billy thanks god for it because he was going to ditch anyway, but this way his dad won’t get a phone call aat work and he won’t get a lecture and a beating for not respecting something or another. He loves being hot and knowing how to use it. Those heated blue eyes really come in handy.

He’s thankful that they only have homeroom on Wednesdays, because it’s the only class he has with Steve, (damn Harrington and Hargrove being so in order) even if it’s only twenty minutes, and Billy does not want to see the other teen. Because though confrontation is his strong suit, he prefers it harsh and mean and flying fists. Not whatever the fuck Steve’s probably got in mind.

So he runs instead. Running isn’t always bad, he tells himself, it’s called fight or flight for a reason. 

For the second time in three days, he flies from Steve.

Max eyes him suspiciously when he picks her up from the middle school.

“You didn’t go to school today.”

“How the actual fuck do you know that?”

“Steve asked me where you were when he picked up Dustin. And I obviously, was very confused, dumbass, because you dropped me off at the normal time. And now you're here, acting all calm like you didn’t just do something that would piss Neil off,” she explains, like Billy’s an idiot. It pisses him off, but he’d had a pretty good day of chainsmoking and listening to his music loud enough to make the Camaro shake down at the quarry. So he doesn’t let it bother him as much as it could. Plus, Maxine and him have gotten on pretty good terms as of late.

“Nurse gave me a pass. Neil’s only gonna know if one of us tells him,” he quirks an eyebrow as he starts driving away from the middle school, looking at Maxine instead of the road. Like he’s daring her to say something about it.

She just shakes her head at him, firey hair flying. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Language, Maxine.”

Max just laughs at him, “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Fuck off.”

“See?”

Billy cranks the music up and they ride too fast for a long time. Until there’s only one more turn to the Hargrove’s street. Then Max turns the music down.

“You’re fucking this up, Billy,” she says, quiet but firm. Because Max knows how to navigate him, now. Knows when she can blow up, when she should be quiet, when the truth is what he needs, when the truth isn’t what he can handle. She can clock his reactions before they happen, because even if people say he’s unpredictable, even if he himself can’t predict his own actions, they really aren’t that hard to figure out. Not if you pay attention. Which she learned to, before they even moved to Hawkins.

She knows what pushes his buttons, what she has to never touch, how far she can push him before he pushes back, hard. Because when Billy pushes back, there’s always damage.

If you just watch, it’s easy to see what triggers each outburst. It always leads back to Neil, to what happened that summer. To the night she thought he was dead, covered in bright blood and bruises and vomit. To what brought that night on.

So all in all, she knows how lightly to tread in this. How easily this could become a disaster of rage and fire and Billy. Which, sometimes, were just three synonyms.

He doesn’t react right away, but his bandaged hands shift on the steering wheel. Crimson blooms on white cotton finger, obvious evidence of discomfort. Because Billy _hurts_ when he’s in pain, whether it be himself or someone else.

“I know,” he says finally, not bothering to correct her swearing. It’s not that he actually cares what she says, but it’s still that little power play. Show power because he can, not because he needs to.

“We’ll be more careful. He won’t find out.” She doesn’t add the _like last time_ because they both know it’s what she means. 

Really, it had been her fault Neil had gone to the pier that day. She had been pissed at Billy for some reason that seemed really stupid now. For dumping the ice cream girl that she actually liked because she skated everywhere and had an attitude and was everything Max wanted to be, unfeminine and wonderful. So when Neil came home after a bad day at work wondering where his son was, she had told him. She hadn’t exactly known he would be with _Diego,_ who was two things Neil hated at the same time, a ‘fag’ and a ‘spic’. But she suspected. She didn’t really even know what the second slur meant, just that it made her stomach roll in the same uncomfortable way as the first one. 

And that had been the first time she’d seen anything. Neil had been so mad when he returned (without Billy) that Max wasn’t sure he’d even found him. He’d made her go to her room, but she could hear the wreckage that happened the second Billy walked through the door. She snuck out after a while, when it still hadn’t calmed down. Then she’s pretty sure she blocked the rest out, because somehow Neil was gone and Billy wouldn’t move and there was blood everywhere. And Billy wouldn’t fucking _move._

So yes, she did feel a little guilty over it. Even if the whole thing still was mostly Billy’s fault. For getting into all that and doing things that he knew Neil hated.

When Billy doesn’t respond, she continues. “Steve’s doesn’t deserve any of this shit. But he seems to actually like you, for some strange reason, because all you ever do is fuck with him, and even if he deserves better than you, I want you to do something good. Maybe to be something not horrible.” Again, the _like you used to be_ is implied.

“Since when do you fuckin’ care so much, Maxine?”

Her face is hot and red, matching her hair. “I don’t care about you. I like _him._ ” 

“Sure you do.”

“So you’ll try it?”

“No.”

“You are the worst, Hargrove.”

“You know it, Mayfield.” He doesn’t get offended or angry at it anymore, it’s turned into almost a term of endearment. Or some sort of inside joke between the two kids stuck living in a shitty house. Because they are allies, now, in a way united against a common enemy.

“Look, asshole,” Max says as they pull into the driveway, “I don’t give a shit about what you do with everyone else. I don’t care who you decide to screw, but I like Steve. And if the two of you are too stupid to figure it out yourselves, I’ll tell you. But you don’t get to fuck this up. Because he’s like Lucas. He isn’t like _us._ He’s _sensitive_ and shit. And he deserves better than you. But apparently he’s an idiot. So you don’t get to fuck this up. So either like _date_ or whatever you do, or end it for good.”

And because she’s always gotta get the last word in, the little bitch, she storms into the house where they can’t continue this conversation. Where he can’t yell at her like he’d like to. Because she isn’t scared of him anymore, she hasn’t been since Christmas, in the end. 

He skips homeroom that Wednesday, but ends up at the quarry on his own accord, no fresh bruises in sight. 

Following Max’s orders isn’t really his strong suit, and he doesn’t plan on letting it become it. Even if deep down, he knows she’s right.

Steve joins him, on their fallen log, after a while. Billy wonders vaguely if El had anything to do with it, with the way she can mysteriously tell what someone wants or needs or should do. 

But Steve isn’t how he normally is, all deflated and sad and looking to smoke until the world ends. He’s full of fight. Full of daring courage and a lick of anger.

He grabs the lapel of Billy’s jacket the second he reaches him, harsh and rough and so unlike Steve. Billy didn’t even have to provoke him, this time. It’s strange and it almost makes Billy concerned.

When Steve smashes their lips together, he tastes of expensive whiskey. Of melancholy masked with anger, of rage masked with kindness. Billy’s not exactly sure how he can taste these things, but he knows he can.

Steve shoves him back, off the log and onto his back. Too surprised by the whole thing, the unprovoked attack, Billy lets himself fall. Not before he catches Steve’s sweater and pulls him down too, though. The brunet lands heavily on Billy’s wide chest, much too loose to be sober.

“You fucking asshole,” Steve growls, lithe body pressing against the length of Billy’s, “You’re skipping because you’re a fucking coward. Can’t even face me. ‘Cause you’re fuckin’ ashamed.”

Billy honestly has no clue where he got that from, because he’s never said he’s _ashamed_ of what he did with Steve. Because he isn’t. He knows he’s supposed to be. But while he may be ashamed of who he is, of who he wants, of being a _fag,_ he’s not ashamed to what happened with Steve.

He just knows that everything would be easier, better, if it never happened again. If Steve would forget he existed in this context, if they went back to hating each other so that there was no small town danger of being murdered. 

Even if all he wanted to do was get into Steve’s pants as much as he possibly could. Even if he let himself, sometimes, in the dark of night, fantasize about what it would be like to be loved by Steve. 

And Billy’s still wondering how he _knew._ How they were somehow connected enough, in enough of a routine or something, to show up here at the same time. Are broken boys so easily predicted by other broken boys?

“What’s got your panties in a twist, pretty boy?” Billy growls back, low and dangerous, daring Steve to continue. Daring him to kiss him again.

But Steve stops looking so good. His eyes are glazed over as he whispers, “You. This is all your fault,” and makes good on that dare.

The taste of whiskey is overpowering, now that Billy is paying attention. He pushes the other boy off his lips firmly, because he may have loose sexual morals, but he does not fuck drunk people. At least when he’s not drunk, too.

“Jesus, Harrington, did you fucking drive here like this?” 

“Nah,” Steve groans, obviously hard where he presses into Billy’s hip, “Drank more once I got here.” 

And _fuck_ Billy’s hard, too. Fuck Harrington. Why’d he chose to come here tonight? The goddamn tease.

He sits up, straddling Billy’s hips. Damn, Billy could get used to that view. Steve loose and relaxed, hair messed up from their tumble, practically riding him. With one hand lightly pinning Billy down (which Billy could very easily get out of, if he were not trying so hard to reign himself in and not take advantage like an asshole), Steve reaches around and pulls a flask from his back pocket. His head tips back as he takes another long swig. Billy’s eyes catch on the muscles of his throat. Which are _not_ helping his raging hard-on.

This whole being sober while someone else gets plastered thing is so not for Billy. Not that Steve is exactly plastered. But he sure as hell isn’t sober. 

With a few deep breaths, Billy sits up. His arm braces around Steve’s back so the other teen doesn’t fall.

“Didn’t take you for a lap guy, Hargrove.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, dumbass, get up.”

“What? No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Billy’s sick of it, so he just stands, letting Steve fumble harshly to the ground.

“Asshole.”

“I warned you, be grateful.”

Steve huffs and puffs but takes the outstretched hand anyway. Shockingly, he’s actually helped up, unlike the numerous times he fell for that trick on the court. He’s fine to walk, because he’s not that wasted really, but he leans on Billy anyway because he’s an idiot with a death wish, apparently.

The ride back to the Harrington house is filled with loud metal and sexual tension, enough to make Billy very ready to just sneak back home and have a great session with his right hand. When they get back, Billy helps Steve up to his room even if it’s unnecessary. 

With Steve safely in bed, Billy makes to leave. 

“Stay,” Steve whispers, suddenly seeming a lot younger, a lot smaller than when he was coming at Billy tongue first. “Please.”

Billy wonders if he’d be asking if he wasn’t drunk. If he’d regret everything he’d said in the morning. 

Despite every fibre of his being telling him not to, he crawls into bed with Steve. Their faces close together, whiskey and smoke still hanging on Steve like cologne. 

As usual, Billy’s gone when Steve wakes up. And his car is still at the quarry. All in all not a great morning for Steve Harrington.

 

Billy doesn’t see Steve until the next Wednesday. For homeroom, because the weekly dinner had been postponed due to some Wheeler family emergency. 

Damn the alphabet.

And damn Steve for sitting there, baby blue sweater and all, next to the only seat open in the whole room. As much as Billy lives for attention, he decides the best course of action is to accept his fate and slide into the open seat like he owns it, not a care in the world. Because he’s too cool for high school, too cool for talking about whatever the fuck Steve looks like he’s itching for.

When a note slips onto his desk, Billy doesn’t have to look over to know exactly what Steve’s face looks like. Smug and a little bitter, covering something of hope and probably a little hurt. Smug because he knows he’s pretty. California pretty, too, not just Hawkins pretty. Knows that he could probably get anyone he wanted, if he went back to trying. If he started giving a shit about anything in Hawkins other than the kids again. If he became _King Steve_ again.

Billy pretends not to see the note, because he’s an asshole like that. Steve pushes it further onto his desk when the teacher isn’t looking, even though it’s _homeroom,_ and passing notes like squeaky middle school girls isn’t something she gives a shit about. 

The muscle in his jaw twitches as he finally gives in and opens the note. It reads, “Bleachers at lunch. Got Reds.” Eloquent as always. Truly a master of the English language.

When he looks at Steve for the first time, eyebrow cocked, unimpressed; Steve just laughs like they’re friends and mimes smoking like an old woman on TV. Like none of this happened. But those big brown eyes hide a darkness behind them, something Billy might be the only one in the room able to see. He knows that a smoke break won’t be innocent.

He lobs the crumpled paper back to Steve with more force than necessary, because sometimes he’s a fucking child.

He’s fully planning on staying as far as he can from the bleachers when the lunch period rolls around, but he really needs a smoke and his Marlboros are pitifully almost gone due to the ridiculous amount he smokes when he’s stressed. Which, to be honest, is all the time. So, he smokes a lot. Sue him.

After smoking his last Red in the parking lot, his fingers itch for another. So he gives in. Stalks to the bleachers, ready for a fight. Or something. All he knows is that he can’t stand all the shit that’s happening around him, involving him. Making it so he can’t just get out of Hawkins without a problem in a few months.

Steve actually looks surprised when Billy finds him under the bleachers, smoking like his life depends on it. The blond is at least ten minutes late, so he’s a little impressed that Steve is still there. He’d figured the other boy would’ve given up by now.

With one smooth motion, Billy nicks the cig from Steve’s lips and places it between his own. Much to the disdain of registered mom, Steve Harrington. 

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, ignoring the quirk of Billy’s thick eyebrows and dart of a too-pink tongue.

“Me neither, princess,” Billy could flirt more, harder, just to bring a blush to Steve’s cheeks like he likes to. To show him that Steve doesn’t actually want this. Doesn’t actually want another guy. But he doesn’t, because there’s also the chance that his flirting would be welcome, that it wouldn't scare Steve off. 

Steve’s eyes get stuck on his cigarette in Billy’s mouth for longer than they should. Because he knows how that mouth _tastes_ like smoke and blood and fire in the best way possible. And fuck, how is he supposed to just stand there and watch Billy greedily suck on his cig when he knows that? How is he supposed to do anything but crowd him and rip that cancer stick from his mouth and kiss him stupid?

How can Billy get under his skin so easily?

When Billy finishes the half of stolen cigarette, he reaches into the front pocket of Steve’s jacket to pull out the flattened pack. 

“You gonna tell me why you were passin’ notes to me like a blushing freshman with a crush or are you just gonna stand and stare?” Billy finally breaks the silence when he’s got another one of Steve’s Reds hanging from his mouth in a way that couldn’t be considered anything but lewd. His eyes burn from the inside out, daring Steve. Daring Steve to start something. Like they always are. Pushing, daring, fighting.

It takes a second of mental preparation, steeling himself and preparing for whatever wild reaction Billy will have (because he never reacts in a normal, sane way, Steve thinks) before he replies, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No shit.”

“Why?”

Billy laughs at this, loud and barking and mean, “Pretty boy, you may be an idiot, but you aren’t that fuckin’ stupid.”

“I don’t fuckin’ get you. One minute you’re all over me, bringing my drunk ass home like a _nice fucking guy,_ the next you want to fight me, the next you’re giving me the cold shoulder. Just chose one.”

“Princess, it’s too fun to get you hot and bothered,” Billy’s eyes drop down slowly to Steve’s lips, pursed around the cigarette. He’s got no clue what he’s doing. 

Well that’s not exactly true. He’s posturing. Putting up an over confident front because Steve saw way too much of what Billy didn’t want seen that weekend at the cabin. So he’s acting like it didn’t happen. Pushing him in a way that doesn’t work as well as it should now that he’s had his hand around the other teen’s cock.

Steve throws his hands in the air, “What the fuck is wrong with you, man? You’re such a dick. Forget it. Forget this. I don’t know why I’m fucking trying.”

“What are you trying for, pretty boy? You still haven’t said what you think this is,” Billy’s tone has turned cruel and biting, because it really doesn’t take much to rile him up, even now.

He hates that Steve thinks he knows anything about him. That Steve thinks this, whatever this is or could be, would be a good idea. Hates that he can’t stay away from Steve. That the stupid fucker makes him want to cave and _date_ him or something equally stupid.

Not in the way he’d date a girl. There’d be no movies and hand holding and senior prom. Billy couldn’t stand that sappy shit anyway, even if they could do it he wouldn’t. But they could go to the quarry to bicker and make out. They could sit at the drive in and mess around in the Camaro as everyone else focused on the movie. They could sit in the summer sun when this disgusting weather finally breaks and the sun finally comes out.

He hates that this is a possibility going through his head.

“I think that you want me more than you’re ever gonna fucking admit. I think you’re trying to be a good person, now, and you’re too stupid to realize that we could be _something_ now that you aren’t always at my throat.” Steve steps forward, hand fisting in Billy’s shirt. Billy retaliates by crowding him into the chain link fence preventing them from going too far under the bleachers. There’s fire in his eyes, hot and burning and craving a fight. Because Steve has to be here, fucking everything up and making life so goddamn hard.

“You don’t know anything about me, Harrington, don’t act like you do.” 

“Yeah I fucking do, _Hargrove,_ you’ve been hanging around me and the kids for months now. And your little tough guy act isn’t that great.”

He definitely shouldn’t have said that, because Billy’s grip on his shoulder tightens drastically, pressing bruises into the soft flesh.

“You’re an idiot, Harrington.” When Billy says it, it lacks all the affectionate humor that those words held when they came from Nancy’s lips.

“But I’m right.”

Steve Harrington feels clueless, most of the time. Like he’s just riding through life without understanding. In class, facing the demodogs, even talking to Dustin a lot of the time, he’s got no clue what’s going on. But this. This he knows. This he can say with more confidence than even when he talks about basketball. 

“So what’s the plan, Hargrove, you gonna hit me or kiss me? Because you have to chose right now. I’ve been strung along enough. They’re mutually exclusive, by the way. So get it over with, you fucking dumbass, because I’m not sticking around just to be treated like shit again. I learned my fucking lesson. So choose. Now.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, when Steve invited him out here. Things had a habit of not going how he planned, though, just look at the last time they were at the quarry; Steve had meant to just drink enough liquid courage to confront Billy the way he was doing now, but that sure didn’t happen. 

They were supposed to be all dandy, smoking cigarettes and promising to get drunk this weekend. They were supposed to be light and airy and uncaring, because honestly, Steve thought Billy bringing him home safely meant they were back on good terms. He’d thought that falling asleep with Billy’s hand resting on his hip meant that they were something real, even if he woke up alone. Thought that that was the way Billy was accepting this. Accepting him, without words. But like always, Steve was wrong.

They were not supposed to get deep and dark and complicated like they always did.

Because truthfully, Steve’s not sure if he’d stay away, even if Billy decides to hit him. There’s something that draws him to Billy. Something that makes it impossible to stay away, now that they’ve come together. That first time they kissed, when there was still snow on the ground, Steve knew he was fucked. He always falls too hard, too fast. To people who could probably kill him. To people who are fire and ice behind blue eyes. He knows he doesn’t love Billy. But he thinks under the right conditions, he might learn to. 

He doesn’t have much time to think about it though, because Billy is kissing him after a beat of silent contemplation. Hard and smokey, a secret shared between them. Steve leans into it, determined to make this stick. Make it real. Cement Billy’s choice. Because his life has been hell already, and he wants this drama to end for good. Or at least for now.

Billy pulls away too fast, because they can’t be caught like this. They’re still on school grounds, after all, even if they’re mostly hidden.

Steve’s breathless, both from the kiss and the little rant he went on. Billy’s watching him intensely, like he’s waiting for Steve to push him away, to say anything. His lips are pink and separated just slightly, breath still smokey from the cigarettes.

Steve breaks the trance, “This means you can’t hit me anymore, you know that right?”

Billy barks a laugh at that, “Don’t do anything that warrants hitting, then.”

“You’re an ass,” Steve laughs, giving another hidden kiss before ducking out of Billy’s grasp. All the fight gone from his shoulders. Replaced by something lighter, even if everything just got more complicated.

Billy’s eyes still glow, but Steve can’t tell from what anymore.

Billy Hargrove is fire and anger and fists, he is not kissing a boy who seemingly only owns polos and pastel sweaters under the high school bleachers. He is violent mood swings and little self-awareness, but here he is, with another boy that just might understand him and who hasn’t been scared away yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Billy and Steve interaction in this one! If you haven't noticed, I like having literally everyone in Billy's life lecturing him. Because he's an idiot and doesn't know what's good for him. Also, with what I have written for the future of this fic, I think I'm gonna make it into a series. Rn I've got a thing written from Dustin's perspective that could be a stand alone but I can't post it till this fic catches up to it, bc spoilers and shit.
> 
> Marlboro Reds are what Dacre actually smoked while playing Billy, btw.


	10. Chapter 10

Steve’s waiting for him when he gets to the quarry that night, baseball bat in hand. 

When they connect, it’s like coming up for air. 

“Come home with me,” Steve breathes in Billy’s ear, breath smokey with the kiss of a cigarette, “We can smoke a bowl and you can do that thing you did last time.” He says this all with his hands in Billy’s shirt, his hips firmly pressed against the other boy’s. 

Billy licks a stripe up Steve’s neck, making him shiver. “I can do a lot better than last time,” he promises. The sultry tone just about makes Steve’s knees weak. 

Steve puts up a fight when Billy tries to pin him to the hood of the Camaro. Wrestles him over, flipping them around with a hand on Billy’s throat. The groan and roll of Billy’s hips in response only serve to prove what Steve expected. Billy’s kinda got a thing for control being taken from him. It’s pretty hot, actually.

Steve leaves him there, high and dry, laughing as he climbs into his Beemer. Billy isn’t an idiot, so he climbs into the Camaro and drives so fast he beats the other boy back to his own home.

They smoke outside, even though Steve’s parents aren’t home to yell at them. Billy still can’t wrap his head around why Steve _cares_ so much about getting smoke in the curtains or whatever. Such a rich priss.

With the pipe in his hand, looking hot and dangerous, Billy climbs onto Steve’s and straddles him. Unashamed and dominating now that he’s given himself permission, Billy never seems to stop touching Steve. Because he can. And he’s going to get his fill before Steve finally changes his mind about letting him.

Steve’s cock stirs to life in his jeans, hardening against Billy’s inner thigh. “Someone’s eager,” Billy purrs into Steve’s ear, decidedly not giving into what Steve wants, “Ever shotgun before?”

Steve nods, because of course he has. Billy’s cock is filling out his ridiculously tight jeans, though so he palms it. “Hello pot,” he says, low and teasing, “Meet the kettle.” 

Billy leans back and lights the bowl, breathing in deep and ignoring Steve’s joke and hand. He keeps his eyes on Steve’s, heavy and lidded and full of lust. After placing the lighter and pipe precariously on the ground next to them, Billy draws in close to to Steve. With their lips only a breath apart, he blows the smoke into Steve’s awaiting mouth. The latter boy swallows it in greedily, letting the burning smoke fall out of his nose as Billy finally closes the gap. Hard lips cover Steve’s soft ones, greedy and biting and rough. One of Steve’s hands finds long curls at the back of Billy’s neck and pulls, sharp and hard because Billy’s still an asshole and the groan he earns makes it even better.

All in all, it’s nothing like Steve ever experienced before Billy. The sandpaper roughness of the stubble on his jaw and upper lip, the sharp flatness of his chest, hard muscle and wide shoulders, the dominance he exudes. Steve’s never had to fight for his position in a relationship. Girls always fall into their place and he in his. The pursued and the pursuer. Hot smoke still lingers in the air around them, making their heads spin even more. 

Steve shoves the shirt from Billy’s shoulders and Billy rips his sweater off in return. The heat that radiates off Billy only keeps them warm for so long. When Billy’s hand shoves roughly down Steve’s pants, he pulls away. 

“Inside,” he growls, voice rough from smoke. It doesn’t take much to convince Billy, whose already climbing off Steve and grabbing his discarded shirt. Not Steve’s though, of course, because he’s still a fucking asshole.

As soon as they get inside, Billy pins Steve against the nearest wall and makes quick work of his belt and zipper. 

At Steve’s groan of _holy fuck, Hargrove_ against his lips, Billy drops to his knees. That gets him another _holy fuck_ and it would be enough to keep him there even if he didn’t already love the weight of a cock in his mouth. 

Billy’s mouth works fast and rough, sucking and pulling and swallowing Steve down until the thighs beneath his fingers quiver. He could be slow and teasing, and he will be if he gets another chance, but it’s been too long since he’s had a proper cock in his mouth. So he’s greedy, and he lets himself be, because pretty boy up there sure isn’t complaining. In the end, all it takes to have Steve pulling him roughly off is prolonged eye contact, sharp blue eyes connecting with heavy lidded brown ones. 

When Steve comes, it’s in thick ribbons over Billy’s face and awaiting tongue. As he rises from his knees, he swipes it off his sharp cheek with a thumb and then sucks it down, eyes on Harrington the whole time. A choked groan escapes Steve’s throat at that, like he’s never seen it before. Which maybe he hasn’t, Billy knows from experience that girls tend to be a lot less gross than himself. 

Steve almost flinches away when Billy shoves his lips over the other guy’s again, repulsed by the taste of himself. But he melts into it after a second, when Billy’s pushing his own pants down over his ass (commando, as always) and covering his cock with Steve’s hand forcefully. It doesn’t take much after that to get him off, because at least Steve knows what he’s doing with a dick in his hand.

Billy wipes the come off with Steve’s discarded sweater again, earning a smack to the head and a _you’re fucking disgusting._ Like he doesn’t already know that. 

 

They kiss lazily in Steve’s bed where the brunet dragged them when they were finished in the living room, soft and slow as Billy savors the moment. He’s not one for cuddling after sex, but apparently Steve is, so he does it. Lets himself be guided to bed if it means he’ll get another round sometime. If it means this little daydream won’t end. 

Billy tastes of sea salt, like the ocean had sunk deep into his bones, another marker that he didn’t belong in the middle of America, so far from the sea. His tan has faded from the soft winter sun, blending him at the edges with the pale faced Hawkins. He’s still golden enough to stick out. Everything about him sticks out in Hawkins, Indiana. It’s one of Steve’s favorite things about Billy. About New Billy. 

New Billy, who apologised to Lucas in the back of the arcade, crouched on one knee. New Billy, who cursed too much in said apology, who warned Lucas that if he made Max feel the same way she did back in the fall in the middle school parking lot again he wouldn’t hesitate to beat his scrawny ass in the same breath. New Billy, who had told Steve that he never cared what Max thought of him if it meant she would stay on Neil’s good side, if it kept her from becoming Susan, letting a boy push her around and treat her like dirt. That it was more important that Billy was the only fucked up one. New Billy, who admitted in the dark of the quarry nights that he was jealous of Max, too, that he hated her for being happy in Hawkins. New Billy, who let Steve see more sides of him than just heat.

When they touch it’s like fire, burning Steve’s skin with its intensity. 

“I can’t fix you,” he whispers into sea soaked skin, “But I won’t break you.”

“I didn’t ask to be fixed, pretty boy,” Billy murmurs against his lips, “And you couldn’t break me if you tried.”

Steve thinks that this is a lie. That underneath the hot, fiery, rough exterior, Billy Hargrove is broken and hurt, teetering on the edge of heartbreak. Even if Steve doubts Billy knows what heartbreak is or feels like.

Billy walks the razor’s edge at all times. Steve can see it with the way he snaps on a whim, the wild rage and flying fists at anything and everything. Can see it in the circular, mottled scars scattered across his body. Can see it in the way he pushes and pushes and still doesn’t believe Steve wants this, whatever it is.

They aren’t _boyfriends_ or anything close, but when Steve can taste the sea and witness the rolling waves in Billy’s tumultuous eyes, he can pretend they are something normal. That Billy won’t leave in the morning. That they aren’t so fucked up that they think this could work.

But maybe they are just fucked up enough to be right for each other. 

 

Billy wakes up hours before he’d meant to, to the piercing sound of screams and a rough punch to the gut. It takes him an embarrassingly long to to realise that it was not, in fact, his father pulling him out of bed for some reason or another. He’s to his feet before he realises that the surroundings are not those of his bedroom, that the screams are not those of his enraged father. 

They’re Steve’s. He’s still in Steve’s bedroom, head no longer swimming with drugs. He’s also starving, but that’s a problem for a later time.

Steve’s still screaming. That’s the current problem. Billy’s never dealt with a nightmare that wasn’t his own, so he’s not exactly sure where to start. 

So he grabs Steve roughly and shakes him, flailing limbs and all.

It works, even if Billy catches an open hand on his skull. 

The only reason Billy can tell that it works though is because Steve’s eyes are now open, and his limbs are coordinated enough to shove Billy away from him. 

“Get out.” Steve demands, harsh and loud.

Billy complies, clad only in some of Steve’s too tight boxer briefs that he snagged from an open drawer. But he doesn’t leave. Even if every bone in him is screaming to get out of there, get out of this. 

Instead, he makes coffee. Looks at his clothes, still on the living room floor, but stays mostly naked in the kitchen. It’s not like there’s anyone there to catch him. Other than Steve.

He drinks his black. Finishes the first mug quickly. After enough time for Steve to have calmed down, to maybe feel less vulnerable, Billy fills up a second mug and puts in a heaping scoop of sugar and some cream from the fridge full of mostly expired items. Steve is a _princess_ and princesses drink coffee for chumps. 

Billy manages the stairs without spilling any coffee onto the pristine white carpet, surprisingly. Steve is staring out the window, back to the door when Billy makes it to his room. 

“Not much to see out there at this time of night, pretty boy,” Billy says casually from the doorway, “And yeah, I know, ‘there’s monsters in those woods,’ but I can garen-fuckin’-tee it’s worse out here.”

When Steve finally turns, mostly dried teartracks glisten on his cheeks in the moonlight. “You didn’t leave,” he states, crossing the barren room to take the light colored coffee from Billy. It’s just how Steve takes it, because life’s too short to drink bad coffee because he’s insecure in his masculinity. Black coffee fits Billy though, he thinks. Sharp and bitter and mean, most of the time. Full of harsh energy.

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’, as usual.

“Why not? I told you to get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t follow orders too well, if you haven’t noticed.” His sharp teeth shine as he smirks over the mug of black coffee, threatening and _hot._

Steve laughs at that, low and short. Signaling what might be the end of whatever has just happened. “No,” he replies, “You don’t, you dickhole.”

“Creative.”

“Leave me alone. It’s three in the morning. My insults are not at their finest.”

Steve sits on the bed and pats the spot next to him as an invitation. His long legs fold up around him, still awkward but obviously almost grown into. 

Billy wonders when it all changed. When his life changed. If there was a moment that he could pin it on. He knows in the end it’s Max’s fault originally, when she reminded him of what he was becoming. _Who_ he was becoming. Brought him back from the brink of too far gone, without even trying to.

Wonders what he did to lead to a beautiful boy sitting on a bed in front of him, trusting him not to hurt him even though he so easily could. So easily would, not even two months ago. Still probably would, if it tickled his fancy. 

He wonders if there is some solidarity in a fight like what happened. If the only way he can get close to someone is to almost kill them first. If being fucked in the head made orbiting each other inevitable.

Billy joins him, eventually. Even if it goes against his nature. Even if everything he is near Steve goes against his nature. Or at least what he thinks his nature is. Maybe that’s changed, too. Maybe it was always different from what he thought on the surface, buried deep under layers of protection.

He doesn’t think that’s true. But it doesn’t matter, in the end, because he’s here now. He didn’t leave when he could’ve. And that’s change enough. 

With all the lights on, coffee in hand, Billy feels naked in a way that has nothing to do with only wearing boxer briefs. Like Steve can see straight through him, through who he is on the outside, hard and angry and asshole-ish.

They aren’t going to talk about what happened, why Steve was screaming in his sleep. That’s not what they do. Billy isn’t the guy who holds someone after a nightmare, someone who talks about their feelings and all that bullshit.

“Since when do you have a tattoo?” Steve asks, tired eyes wide as he points to the side of Billy’s upper thigh.

“Uh, since I was fifteen, dumbass. How the fuck have you not noticed ‘till now? Are you that fuckin’ oblivious? We showered together almost every day for months, dumbass.” The break in mood is enough to get Billy to find his spot next to Steve on the bed.

Barely below the level of his ass on the outside of his right thigh, there’s the shape of a surfboard. Squiggly lines and black-green ink scream shitty home job. Only a hair bigger than his thumb, it sits vague, just barely enough to look like a board and nondescript enough to not look like any one in particular. It’s shitty as hell and very nearly got infected when he got it, but it’s one of Billy’s favorite things about his body. Even better than rolling muscles and only barely beating out the earring.

Steve’s calloused fingers brush the ink under the skin. “Tell me about it,” he demands. 

“It’s not that great of a story, pretty boy.”

“Humor me, then.”

And Billy does, even though he wants to push more. He hates that he can feel himself go soft for this fucking guy. For Steve Fucking Harrington, his edge is dulling. Damn those meddling kids and their stupid, hot babysitter. 

“One of my friends back in Cali bought a gun instead of paying tuition with his folks’ cash. Was goin’ around tattooing anyone he could get his hands on. Me and my other friend were feelin’ rebellious.” Billy doesn’t say why. Doesn’t say that he’d only recently figured out what a first kiss was _supposed_ to feel like, when he kissed a boy, hard and rough and biting, for the first time the previous day. Doesn’t say that he’d gotten his ass kicked around for mouthing off that morning and wanted to do something his dad would hate. Doesn’t say that he was also high off grass that one of the older guys bought on his college campus. 

“So Daryl gets out his cheap gun and tells me he’s got the best idea, won’t even let me look ‘till it’s over. Fuckin’ lucky I didn’t end up with a dick or some stupid shit. But it was this. Best thing I’ve ever seen. Hurt like a bitch, too. And my dumbass friend chickened out after. Pussy.” Billy’s caught up in his memories, not paying attention to how Steve watches him with something like admiration. He doubts anyone in Hawkins would have the balls to do that. Especially at fifteen.

Steve’s not sure what to say to the story, because he still isn’t used to hearing anything _real_ come out of Billy’s mouth without any anger behind it. So he says the first thing that comes to mind, “I still can’t picture you on a surfboard.”

“Yeah, well as we found out earlier, you don’t have much of an imagination, princess.”

They stay up until the sun rises, drinking too much coffee and bickering about shit that doesn’t matter. Eventually they move back to the poolside, because Billy can’t stand being indoors for too long and Steve can feel the agitation roll off him in waves. 

Before Billy leaves, to sneak back into the Hargrove house, they shower together. And Billy drops to his knees again, right there under the spray of water, and sucks Steve’s soul out through his cock. No girl, not even Nancy (who got semi-practiced at it) has ever given him head in the same way. Not confident and over sure with strong hands shoving him around. Not putting a hand in his blond hair and ordering him to _pull._ After, Steve’s pretty sure he’ll put up with whatever shit Billy’s gonna put him through if it means he’s gonna keep getting sucked off like _that._

 

When April turns to May, Steve and Billy no longer meet at the quarry in the middle of the night. Instead, Billy drives to the Harrington house, which frequently has all the lights on but only a teenager home. He throws rocks at the window, like a fucking cliche. But Billy doesn’t give a shit if he breaks a window or two, which sets him apart from any rom-com.

The Hargrove residence stays somewhat calm for the first week of May, because Billy’s rarely there past the family dinner. He’s either dropping Maxine somewhere or at the cabin or out by Steve’s pool, getting his rocks off while Steve’s parents are still away on some business trip.

That’s why he’s almost blindsided when his father barges into his room (no locks, obviously, Neil took them off all the doors other than his own the day they moved in) Sunday morning pissed off to high heaven. 

Neil blames the rage on the fact that Maxine’s been skateboarding home a lot recently. All Billy can think is _he knows._ He may not know the details. May not know who or what or when, but he _knows._ At least suspects. That’s why he doesn’t bother with open hands or marks easily hidden by shirts. He goes all out.

Because maybe if Billy is ugly, he won’t find any fag to shove a dick down his throat.

It hurts more after having a few good weeks and only a little slap around here and there. It hurts more now that Billy knows he didn’t do anything to directly deserve it. Didn’t do anything but be who he is. Didn’t even flaunt it. Never does. But somehow, Billy knows, somehow he’ll always be found out.

Nothing will ever be able to protect him. No one will ever save him, probably not even himself.

He wants to blame Steve for this, but in the end, he can’t. It’s his own damn fault for being so queer. Steve just happened to be the prettiest thing in Hawkins. 

When he escapes, long after Neil Hargrove has ended the beating, the familiar anger doesn’t creep up the back of his throat. Only numbness comes over him. 

He still beats the numbness out on the punching bag anyway, because it’s all he knows how to do. The sharp pain in his still healing fists grounds him. Pulls him back to reality.

 

“Max called,” is the only explanation Steve gives when he shows up on the doorstep of Hopper’s cabin. 

Hopper just signs and lets him in, nodding to the teenager sitting on the couch looking much worse for wear with his daughter. Billy’s eye is already blackening, puffy but not swollen shut like it could be. His lip is split and shockingly, his head is dripping blood onto his shoulder. There’s a chunk of blond hair missing, but Steve figures it won’t be too hard to cover for school. 

All Steve can think is, _It’s been a while since he’s looked this bad._ He’s definitely not looked this bad since Steve really started noticing the bruises at times other than the gym showers.

“Hey, pretty boy, what the fuck are you doing here?” Billy asks, flippant even as El wipes blood from his forehead and out of his curls. She stops when Steve crosses the small room to them, handing off the medical supplies.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Steve replies nonchalantly, even though everyone knows it was Max who called him. She’d come home to find Neil missing and Billy’s door cracked open, the older teen still lying on the floor where he’d fallen at some point. On the phone, she’d whispered to Steve that she wasn’t sure if he was conscious, but shortly after saying it he’d gotten up and fled without ever noticing her.

Billy’s eyes flick to Hopper, watching their interactions. It doesn’t escape Steve, even if he isn’t sure why Billy is distrustful at the moment. From the kitchen, Hop notices the shift too, and averts his eyes. 

Truthfully, Steve doesn’t trust Hopper with this, either so he he doesn’t take offence to how Billy won’t reach out to him like he’s sort of started to in the week or so since their conversation under the bleachers. Reaching out in a way that isn’t supposed to hurt, but somehow manages to anyway. Because none of this is going to be real, and Steve knows it. Knows that Billy can’t be anything more than temporary. Steve’s just stuck waiting until he gets pushed away for real, this time.

“Let’s clean you up in the bathroom,” he suggests quietly, “This isn’t gonna get the blood up very well.” He waves the supplies around, which causes El to huff in annoyance. Because she would’ve done a _fine_ job with those out there on the sofa.

Billy doesn’t touch him at all under the scrutiny of Hopper. Not like he usually does, when they’re all in a big group. Then it’s rare for them not to be touching. Even before their casual ‘friendship’ turned sexual. No one noticed when it’s a big group. There’s no need to worry about Hopper or anyone else noticing the lingering touches or glances. No one to pays attention to how Billy’s thumb rubs circles where it sits too high on Steve’s thigh or how Steve’s hand stays on Billy’s lower back too long after a greeting. And if they did notice, it likely wouldn’t be paid any attention in the chaos.

Not that either boy thinks Hopper’s a bad guy, really. It’s just too likely that a small town cop wouldn’t take kindly to a couple of _fags_ hanging out in his house, around his kid. And Billy’s never trusted authority. Even if Hopper’s been a better father figure than he’s ever had. It’s just straight up dangerous to let him in on their secret.

There’s fire behind Steve’s teeth when they reach the bathroom, Billy can taste it on his tongue. He sits on the sink vanity, legs spread wide to accommodate Steve between them. There’s barely enough room for his ass on the tiny counter, and definitely not enough for it and access to the sink, but it’ll do for as long as he keeps kissing Steve.

He kisses Steve like he needs it to live, because honestly, it feels like he does. There’s blood in his mouth, coppery and red, but Steve keeps kissing him anyway. Hesitant hands touch his blond hair, worrying over the injured spot. Usually Steve is rougher, fisting those curls and pulling hard, like Billy likes. But now their kisses are gentle, taking care for Billy’s injuries. Billy can’t stand the tenderness at the same time as he revels in it.

Because Billy is heat and burning passion, dissonance and fury. He is not secret tender kisses in a cop’s bathroom. But sometimes, he thinks he could be.

When they separate, the fire Billy could taste in Steve’s mouth has travelled to his eyes. 

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Steve asks lowly, having gotten no information from Max on the phone. His fingers brush Billy’s brow lightly where a bruise is starting to form.

“You gonna tell me how you knew I’d be here?”

“Max called. She was worried about you, shithead.”

Billy wasn’t actually expecting a response, so he dignifies Steve’s question with one of his own. “He knows,” his tone is grave, serious. Unlike how he usually is. “Dunno what he knows, but he knows something. Wouldn’t’a gone so hard if he didn’t.”

Steve wonders if he’s ever seen Billy as vulnerable, as scared as he is now. Without fists being thrown, that is. This isn’t a Billy he thinks he’ll get to see often, soft and almost scared. So he savors it. He doubts he’ll ever see this Billy again, in truth.

“What’s the plan, Hargrove?” Steve asks, nose brushing against Billy’s he’s so close.

“Only two and a half months ‘till I’m eighteen. Survived this long. I can make it another few fuckin’ months.”

Steve pushes the blond curls behind Billy’s pierced ear, like he would’ve with Nancy but so different at the same time. Because he couldn’t imagine treating the two of them in the same way. Not when they were so different. Even if they both had curly hair, blue eyes, a bit of a temper, and the ability to kick his ass straight to Sunday. He doesn’t have a response for that, can’t ask what he’s going to do when he turns eighteen, so he just orders, “I need the sink, get your ass off it.”

Billy complies with a complimentary shake of said ass and a harsh smirk. Steve smacks it, just because he can. 

Billy allows Steve to fuss over him, to treat his wounds and mess with his hair so it covers the patch. Lets him kiss his eyebrow like the sweetness doesn’t revolt him. Maybe it doesn’t, anymore. 

“How did I not know you were a fuckin’ fag,” Billy says with a raised eyebrow as Steve finishes bandaging his knuckles, “You’re queerer than a damn fruit cake.”

“You’re even stupider than you look, that’s how,” Steve laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “I kissed you first, and you’re still talkin’ about how I don’t know shit.”

“Still true, you don’t know shit. About anything, Harrington.”

 

El sits on the couch as the boys spend way longer than necessary in the bathroom, a pleased smirk on her lips. Like she knew this would happen the whole time. And maybe she did. Billy honestly still has no clue what the girl was or what she could do. He’s not all that convinced she’s even full human, though he wouldn’t know what she was if she wasn't. Surely not an angel, because the St. Flora pendant that hangs around his neck was his mother’s, and he hasn’t believed in a god since the day she was put in the ground.

Hopper takes one look at his daughter and says, “Stop spying.”

She does, reluctantly, pulling away from that room as Steve gently kisses Billy’s fat lip. She wonders if Hopper has any clue what is happening in his bathroom. This whole thing isn’t something anyone's ever discussed with her. She knows that usually boys go with girls. That she’s never seen two boys together except for Billy and Steve. And that they never do anything where others can see them. Not so much as hold hands, like Mike’s been obsessed with since she started being allowed to see the party again. They only ever smile at each other when no one else is looking, only kiss when they’re alone. She doubts they would dance together if the high school has a Snow Ball.

Overall, she’s happy for Billy. Happy that he’s come so far, that he’s a lot more like her now than her when she first escaped. She wonders what he will be like when he escapes, how he will change even more than he has from Steve and her and Max. She wonders if maybe, when he’s escaped his hell, if he will kiss Steve out in public. If he will hold his hand patiently like she does with Mike. If the anger will drain from his shoulders. 

“Jim,” she asks, “What’s ‘fag’?”

As Jim stops in his tracks, frozen because that’s a first, the boys emerge from the bathroom. Billy’s freshly bandaged and Steve’s cheeks are lightly pink. They’re back to not touching.

“It’s, uh,” Hopper’s eyes dart back and forth between El and the teenagers, wondering what she saw that could’ve prompted this question, “A mean thing to call men who… date other men.” He settles on, because he’s really trying to be kid friendly and she obviously saw or heard _something._ Something Hopper would rather not think about, ever, thank you very much.

Billy is squinting, trying to figure out what the fuck they just walked into. Steve’s ears are getting increasingly red. 

Eventually, Billy breaks the uncomfortable silence. “See ya, El, Chief. Gonna spend the night at _Stevie’s._ ”

Steve smacks him on the arm for the nickname, and they escape to the safety of their respective cars. 

“Don’t think Hop’s been that uncomfortable in his life,” Steve laughs when they reach his door. “I don’t think she meant anything by it.”

“She’s a fuckin’ weird-ass kid.” 

"You don't know the half of it." With that, they are racing through the Harrington estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> St. Flora is the patron saint of the abandoned.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for light discussion of past self harming behaviors around the middle. Nothing at all graphic, just a little discussion. So watch out if you're really sensitive to that stuff.

Maxine’s birthday is mid May, barely a week after Billy’s beat down and subsequent disappearance to the cabin and Steve’s house. He spends one night with Steve, because the latter’s parents come home the next day. The next two are spent with El and Hop, much to El’s delight. He picks up Max in the mornings for school and drops her off at all her events without a hitch, until she finally gives the all clear to come home. 

The next three days are smooth sailing in the Hargrove residence, with Billy keeping his nose clean and Maxine being unable to do wrong in his father’s eyes. The longer they go without an outburst, the more on edge Billy becomes. Peace is not something to expect, because it is always broken. The longer Neil Hargrove goes without using his favorite punching bag named Billy, the worse it gets when he does snap. 

It wasn’t always like that. When Billy was really young, it was only spankings that were much to hard but somewhat earned. Billy always figured it was the same as the rest of the kids in his class. He never realized that when they said ‘spank’ they meant light with an open hand. Not broken spoons and the harsh whip of a belt buckle. 

But in the end, Billy always deserved it. He always fucked something up. Did something wrong, even when he was young. There was always a _reason,_ even if with every hit or shove it made Billy hate his father even more. 

He knew now, that other people didn’t get hit in the same way. Exhibit A, Maxine. But he also knew that most people weren’t as fucked up as he is. 

“You did _what?!_ ” Maxine screeches from her room, loud and annoying and piercing its way through their shared wall. “I’m in _middle school_ no one’s moms invite people to birthday parties anymore!” 

From what Billy can’t shut out with a pillow, too early to be out of bed, Max is bordering on hysterical. A loud clattering of something getting thrown reverberates through the room. He can’t make out what Susan is saying back to her daughter, and he really doesn’t care to. Only fucking Maxine can get away with this shit. If he pulled something like that, he’d get his ass kicked to next week. Bitch doesn’t know how good she’s got it, really. 

“I am not wearing that,” Max continues, and Billy can practically see her stomping her bratty little foot, “You can _not_ make me wear a dress.”

With the slam of a door, there’s a sudden loud banging on Billy’s. 

“Fuck off, Maxine,” he yells, from bed, muffled from the pillow still over his head. He knows Neil isn’t home, so he can get away with swearing at her. 

“Take me to the arcade,” she demands, still pounding on the door. 

After a second, Billy gives in. But he takes a real long time to get dressed, just to piss her off. It’s not like he’s got a choice in the end, because the second he tells her to fuck off and skate there, it’ll make it back to Neil and he’s not dealing with that today. Not now that it’s gonna make people fucking _worry_ and just generally be annoying as hell. And by people, he means Steve Fucking Harrington. At least Hopper never asked too many questions. But Steve Fucking Harrington never gets off his fucking dick when he sees mottled bruises and fresh cuts. Steve Fucking Harrington bitches and moans and nags, because he supposedly _cares_ or some shit.

So Billy climbs into the Camaro fifteen minutes later with an angry redhead. Fuck his life, honestly. 

She has the party that Sunday anyway, but convinces the _party_ to come over, too. Much to Susan’s displeasure, because _Maxine, this was supposed to be about you making some friends that are_ girls. Billy can see the wheels turning in his father’s head, holding back the word _dyke_ because she’s still the golden child. For now. 

That’s how he spends his Sunday, because he’s supposed to _chaperone_ a shit ton of squirly girls that Max doesn’t even talk to as they run around the house doing girly shit and fucking with everything. Even though he had planned to drive to Harrington's and spend the day in the emerging sun without a shirt on to maintain his fading tan. And to get his fucking dick sucked. Even better, to get his dick sucked _while_ working on his tan.

Instead, he gets cornered by fourteen year old girls that couldn’t care less that Max is purposefully ignoring them. 

When everyone leaves, even the boys, Maxine and their parents get into a screaming match. Because she’s learned _nothing_ from what Billy’s taught her. Too fucking stubborn for her own good.

Neil never lays a hand on her, but he gives her a strong, loud lecture on respecting her mother. 

Billy wonders what she’ll get the next morning as an apology. When Billy was young, it used to be movies. Neil would take him out for movies, after the first few times he really got hit, years younger than Maxine is now. He would say _that got out of hand, son, but how will you ever learn if I don’t teach you_ and Billy would pretend that some shitty movie at the cheap theater made up for it. But eventually, that got way too expensive due to how many times it happened. How many times Billy accidentally messed up or was too much of a _fag_ or something equally trivial. Then Billy started acting out on purpose, not giving a shit if it meant a beating. 

Inevitably, that landed him here. Hawkins, Indiana. Hell on earth.

When Neil finally goes to bed, there’s still sniffles coming from the room beside Billy’s. So he does the unthinkable. He climbs out his own window and knocks lightly on Max’s. She doesn’t ask and he doesn’t explain, she just follows him out solemnly. Like a march to her death, instead of away from it.

Billy drives them to the diner he’s been to with Steve. The only one open this late, where the waitress gives him bedroom eyes and he returns them and always gets a free slice of pie. 

He orders Maxine a strawberry milkshake and she sucks the straw until the tight tension slowly fades from her shoulders and her blue eyes dry. 

One AM comes quick, sneaking up on the pair like a fox in the woods, a lonely shark in the water. Maxine still hasn’t said a word to him, and he doesn’t mind. It’s actually a breath of fresh air, to just exist without her nagging or whining. He eats the pie slowly, orders a refill on the shake when Max finishes the first one in silence. 

Eventually, Max whispers so quietly that Billy almost isn’t sure she actually said anything, “I hate her.”

Billy knows that feeling. Knows she doesn’t, because as much as he hates her for her calm complacency, in the end Susan is Max’s mom. As much as Max may wish her gone now, she doesn’t actually want it. 

“No you don’t,” he says back, as she stares into her milkshake. It’s the first real fight they’ve had. The first time anything’s really gotten scary for Maxine and her privileged little life.

They drive home in silence when Billy deems Max recovered and exhausted enough to fall asleep.

As she climbs through her window, she looks back at him, red hair shining in the moonlight. “Thanks, Billy,” she says, soft and lonely, before disappearing into the house. 

She doesn’t get it. Nobody gets it. Nobody get _him._ But slowly, Billy’s starting to think that might not be a bad thing. That maybe no one should. That even as he becomes less alone in this dark world, this part of being alone might be better than having someone there with him. 

He still hates the world, when Hawkins is happy and gleaming in spring sun and he’s still so damn alone. But he might not hate Maxine so much anymore.

 

Billy walks on eggshells around his dad even more than usual for the rest of May. He makes up bullshit excuses and Max covers for him, most of the time. Usually because she’s pleased that both he and Harrington have been in better moods since they started fucking regularly. Good moods mean more free rides for her and her stupid friends, and slightly less mean teasing at the group dinners. Not no teasing, obviously, but Billy’s nicer about it than he has been in a long time. He only really goes into Dustin when he deserves it, now. And only tells Lucas to get his hands _off_ of Maxine before he cuts them off about eighty-five percent of the time he catches them touching, instead of one hundred.

All in all, everyone appreciates the lighter mood that a well fucked Billy has, even if Steve’s the only one who _really_ knows why he hasn’t been as shitty recently. Some have their suspicions, but only Max dares bring it up ever.

They aren’t _boyfriends_ like Max likes to say. They just fuck and hang out and hate the world together. Sit and smoke or drink and talk about how royally fucked everything is.

“Gonna see your _boyfriend_ today, asshole?” She asks one day, only a week after her disaster of a birthday party, as she climbs into the Camaro before school.

He says, “Shut your fucking mouth, don’t ever fucking say that again.”

But she plows through anyway, unfazed by his little outburst. “‘Cause Dustin’s planning on a surprise pool party at Steve’s. Like Steve would like that, but whatever.” 

“It’s barely seventy damn degrees, are you stupid?”

“We surfed a lot colder, dumbass, _and_ Steve’s pool is heated.”

“And why the fuck are you telling me this shit?”

“Because, _asshole_ you’re invited. And if you’re not _decent_ when we get there, I’m taking Steve’s bat after you again.”

“You didn’t even hit me the first time, and I’m supposed to be what, scared?”

“God, just shut up and accept that for some stupid reason people actually don’t hate you right now. And don’t ruin it because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

The _like last time_ sits heavy in the car, even though she hadn’t meant it that way. 

 

True to her word, Maxine and the rest of the dweebs break into the Harrington house around four, less than two hours after dropping them off at their respective homes. It’s probably a good thing that Billy didn’t actually drop to his knees or push Harrington into the kitchen counter like he had planned, because everytime they have sex, Steve insists on falling asleep naked wherever they are for an hour. 

Billy wonders it it’s the only time he actually sleeps. Judging by the constant dark circles under his eyes, it’s not a far off guess.

The thought of Dustin’s stupid face at the sight of Billy with his precious, _perfect_ Steve Harrington’s cock down the resident terror’s throat almost makes him want to start something, just so he can ruin everything that kid thinks Steve is. But. That would end up with a lot more than just a shocked reaction and a disgusted face. So he doesn’t. He stays safe.

The kids burst in already screaming, swimsuits under their clothes and towels shoved under skinny arms as Billy downs a second tumbler of expensive scotch. 

Max gives Billy a once over, “You finally did something right. I’m shocked.”

It earns him a slap to the arm from Harrington and a, “ _That’s_ why you wanted a fucking drink?”

“Pretty boy, punch next time, even Maxine hits harder than you.”

And Harrington flips him the bird as he starts barking overprotective orders at the kids as they start setting up all their shit around the pool.

“Steve, relax,” the curly one groans, “We brought you popsicles.”

No one talks about Barb, about the way Steve’s hands are balled so tight in fists that crescent shaped marks mar his palms until Dustin shoves a popsicle into them.

“Gimme a red, princess.”

“You gonna say please, asshole?” 

“No.” It earns him a popsicle whipped across the poolside cement, smacking his already bare chest before he catches it. A shark’s smile is all Steve gets for his trouble.

As Billy unwraps his prize, Steve strolls over to him, “Red isn’t a flavor, by the way.”

Billy barks a laugh, “You think this,” he offers the treat up to Harrington’s lips, “Tastes anything like cherry?”

And in that moment, it’s like nothing else exists. Not the kids just feet away in their own world, nothing. Just Billy’s head buzzing ever so slightly from downing two glasses of scotch and Steve’s hand steadying his hand as he takes the stupid popsicle in his mouth and makes _direct_ fucking eye contact with the blond. Fuck. Definitely should’ve gotten himself laid before the kids came over.

Billy pulls away because that just got way too heavy for a kids party, just for that second. “See?” He says, returning the popsicle to his own mouth, “Red. _Not_ cherry.”

He is sharp teeth and evil smiles, and Steve Fucking Harrington can’t keep his hands off now that he’s got him. Not that Steve will ever admit it. 

Especially after they’ve both changed into swimsuits at Dustin’s insistence, and the short trunks hang low on Billy’s hips and high on his thighs and leave almost nothing to the imagination. Even worse, Billy knows he’s hot shit, California and beachy. 

 

A towel laid in barely green grass. A sticky red drip on a tan chest. A warm sunny spot in a backyard. A boy, almost a man, in short red swim trunks, avoiding the reach of a warmed pool. Kids with wet hair and goggles, splashing inordinate amounts of water onto concrete. A tomboy sister in a swimsuit her step-father would hate, because it’s paired with some of the step-brother’s old board shorts that she stole before the elder could get rid of them. A boy with his best friends, young and insecure and wide-eyed, drowned out by happiness and acceptance. Another boy, less scrawny than the other, eyes stuck on the way the almost-man smiles around a blue popsicle at a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Yet another, his own eyes stuck on a girl that dresses more like he does than any of the other girls in his class, still a little amazed that she’s real and in _Hawkins._ One more, normally sulking and bitchy, throwing his slight weight onto the the smallest to take them both under the pale blue water. 

It could almost be summer. _Almost._

The promise of hot weather is the only thing that keeps Billy sane, he thinks. Or at least as sane as he is capable of.

 

As they lie in the barely warm May sun, threatening to set where it sits low over the horizon, Steve works up the courage to say something. He does it now, with the kids being nuisances in his pool, which they have helped themselves to, because he’ll probably lose his nerve if there’s no pressure. They're lying off to the side on towels stretched in his lawn, not out of sight of the little monsters but far enough for even Dustin to not be paying any attention to them. He slides his sunglasses down his nose, an extra bump there courtesy of the guy across from him. 

“I know what cigarette burns look like, Hargrove.”

“So fucking what, Harrington.”

“You’ve got six.”

“You’re counting my damn scars now? Fuckin’ creepy, Harrington.”

Steve plows on, hushed and unwilling to be thrown off like Billy’s trying to do. “ _Three of which_ I know for sure your dad didn’t do.”

“You don’t know shit, pretty boy, don’t act like you do just ‘cause you’ve had my dick in your mouth.”

Steve shoves him at that, warranted but still not hard enough to hurt or anything. Just enough to say _stop being a dick._

“You gonna tell me about them?” He didn’t have to do this, to bring this up even though he knew Billy was going to get all defensive and mean. He could’ve let sleeping dogs lie. But Steve Harrington’s never been great at that, because he has to push too. Maybe not as much as the teen next to him, with stolen shades concealing those bright eyes, but he still pushes. 

“Are you _trying_ to ruin this mediocre fucking weather for me, pretty boy? We are not talking about this with the brats right fucking there.” Billy doesn’t even turn his head from where it rests propped up behind it.

“So you’ll talk about them when they leave?”

Billy _snorts_ at that, the asshole. “No.”

 

But he does, after they drop the kids off and smoke a joint in the setting sun. He’s not even sure why he does, really. Because Steve isn’t hounding him about it anymore. He hasn’t even mentioned it since all those hours ago. For some reason, Billy doubts he’d even bring it up again. 

“First three were from my dad. Caught me smoking when I was thirteen. Gave up when when it obviously didn’t fucking work.” 

His voice captures Steve’s attention. Wide eyes tell him that the other teen wasn’t expecting his questions to ever be answered. But Billy almost feels like he _owes_ him for some damn reason. Maybe for letting him spend so many night there, for getting him off, for not pushing like Billy would’ve, for sticking around even though he shouldn’t.

So Billy tells him, even if he can’t look at his face when he does.

“Rest were me.”

And it’s almost like Steve wasn’t expecting that. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was expecting for Billy to say they were from some kink, from some ex, from doing something stupid, since they’re so high on his thigh. Hidden by his board shorts and even tiny gym shorts. Unlike the three from his father, that sit uncomfortably on his arms.

“Why?” Steve asks, because sometimes Billy forgets how damn easy Harrington’s had it. Or maybe he hasn’t, since he does wake up screaming. Since he’s lost a crazy amount of weight since basketball season started last fall. How, sometimes, Billy can see light shadows of his ribs if he twists right. But he doesn’t get it.

So Billy just shrugs, still staring out at the dancing pool lights, “‘Cause it hurt.”

“That’s fucked up.”

And Billy just hums, because he never claimed otherwise.

“Why’d you stop?” Steve asks after a beat of silence, always one to pry.

“Beating the fuck outta someone else worked a lot better,” Billy replies, sucking in a long hit. He won’t explain past that, he doesn’t need to. Steve may not get it, but he at least knows when he needs to stop fucking talking.

 

Billy catches Will staring more than a few times, especially in the days after the impromptu pool raid. Finally, after one too many catching eyes, Billy gives him one of those looks that mean _follow me_ and goes out to the Byers’ back porch for a smoke. 

With a deep inhale of his cigarette, Billy watches the woods, waiting for one of those monsters Steve is always alluding to. After a couple minutes, Will joins him, too soft for a boy of roughly fourteen. 

“Can I have one?” Will asks, waving at the smoke hanging from Billy’s lips. 

Billy chuffs at that, “Do I look like someone who wants to get murdered by little Mrs. Byers?”

“She smokes, too. So does Jonathan. It’s my destiny.”

Billy outright laughs at that, not in a kind way either. “Sure kid, great argument,” he says sarcastically but passes the cigarette over anyway. “If you can keep that down, you can have one. And you are _not_ gonna tell your damn mother.”

Will smiles, eyeing the filter of the cigarette where it had just been in Billy’s mouth like this was exactly what he wanted. Which fuck, maybe it was. Maybe this whole thing was just to get his lips somewhere Billy’s had been, because he’s young and got a crush. Gross.

The smoke immediately rockets out of Will’s mouth as he coughs loudly. Exactly as Billy was expecting. He snatches the cigarette back and returns it to its resting spot.

“See?” He says with a chuckle, slapping the kid on the back a couple times for good measure. Billy watches the woods, and Will watches him do it, cheeks pink.

“Kid, you gotta get over this little crush thing. I’m way too old for you.”

Will looks ready to protest, so Billy steamrolls through it. “Believe me, kid, older guys aren’t something you want to mess around with. Especially not older guys like me. It’s a shit idea.”

“Because you’re with Steve?” Will asks, because of course he knows. At least he’s right this time.

“No. Because I’m fucked up and wouldn’t treat you right. Ain’t there some kid your own age you can have some girly fuckin’ crush on?”

Will glances back into his house, wide eyes giving away more than he probably meant to. Billy wonders if he even noticed he glanced back.

“Aw shit, kid. Which on is it? Curly, Sinclair, or the little bitchy one?”

At least it gets Will to laugh. “The little bitchy one,” he admits, quietly like there’s someone who gives a shit out here. 

“Rough.”

Will take the cigarette from him again, inhaling less deeply this time and only coughing half as much as the first time.

They stand in silence for a while, because Billy’s never known what to do around kids. They aren’t his strong suit. People in general usually aren’t his strong suit, unless he’s trying to make them jealous or seduce them. Anything past that and he’s shit out of luck.

“Little bitchy one’s no good anyway. He’d be a shit first.”

It gets will to laugh at least, small and like he knows he shouldn’t. Like he knows he should be offended on behalf of Mike. “Why?”

“Too bitchy.”

Then Will is laughing, for real this time. Loud and too much for the joke. Like he’s on that edge between laughter and tears. 

“Does it get any less shitty?” Will asks once his laughs have turned into only hiccups. 

“No.” Billy takes a long drag, “But if anyone gives you shit for it, it’s been a while since I really got to beat the shit outta someone.”

Will smiles at that, because this whole thing was probably the nicest rejection ever. Coming from resident bad-boy Billy Hargrove, nonetheless. As he leaves the porch, ready to be back in with his friends, Will says, “You’re not so bad, Hargrove.”

And Billy thinks, _obviously, you’re the one with the crush, stupid kid_ but he also thinks, _you don’t know shit, kid, I’m worse than you could ever imagine._

Because Billy Hargrove is worse than a monster in the woods, he is out here and he is unpredictable and his life is decent right now. And life isn’t supposed to be decent for broken boys with hard childhoods. It’s supposed to be bruising and painful and mean. It’s supposed to push him down at every turn and he’s supposed to fuck this up. He’s going to, he knows it. It’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when. And if he’ll have made it out of Hawkins before that time comes. 

Because monsters are out here, in the real world, cut off from the woods and they are coming for him. Coming for everyone. They are stuck in his chest and throat and soul. They are going to eat him alive if he keeps this up. If he doesn’t let them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My best friends in the world are coming up north to visit me for a little over a week so I probably won't post regularly again until they go home, sorry! I might get another short chapter out tomorrow before they get here but we will see.


	12. Chapter 12

School ends the last day of May for seniors, setting Billy and Steve free while Nancy and Jonathan sat stuck for the final week. Graduation is that Saturday, the gym that used to house basketball doomed for happy parents and folding chairs.

As the final bell rings, Billy waits for Steve against the latter’s locker, hands shoved in his pockets and heavy shades covering his eyes even though he’s still indoors. His dark shirt is open almost all the way to his navel and he’s got on the jeans that he’s noticed make Steve’s eyes linger even more than usual. Not that Steve would admit that. And Billy would never admit that he’s wearing something for someone other than himself. 

He knows he’s hot as hell like this, one foot kicked up to rest on the locker behind him. Multiple wandering eyes catch on him, even if he’s no longer as King of the school as he could be. Not that it matters anymore, because this is the last time he’ll ever have to see this shit place and all it’s shitty small town people. 

Even better, Steve takes in a sharp breath when he catches sight of the blond blocking his locker.

Steve checks around, lucky that no one is giving him even a wandering eye, all too caught up in the senior’s final day. With a shove and a hand that lingers too long, he murmurs, “God, I wish I could kiss you right now,” only loud enough for Billy to make out. Because he can remember so easily what it was like with Nancy. There was no need to hide. He could just scoop her up in his arms and kiss her silly, right there in the hallway. 

If he tried that with Billy, no only would he probably get an elbow or fist to the face for surprising the other boy, it’d put them both in danger. It’s just another stark difference in his life now.

“Don’t get all sappy on me, Harrington. You’re worse than a bitch.” Billy’s grin held the opposite tone of his words, making Steve wonder, not for the first time, if he actually liked it when Steve got sappy and romantic. It’s hard to imagine that Billy’s ever experienced it before. And hell, Steve can get crazy sappy if he wants. 

After grabbing the final contents of his locker, Steve closes it with a satisfied smirk. He did this. He survived, through it all. He lived. 

“Done yet, princess?” Billy teases, arm dropping heavily over Steve’s shoulders in the same way he used to do with Tommy. Friendly and casual, not the least bit sexual or romantic to an outsider. Just guys being dudes. But Steve knows it’s different, for him. Besides, Billy can barely keep his hands to himself, now that he’s allowed to touch. 

When Steve finally nods, Billy yells, “Then let’s blow this shit hole,” much too loud for how close his mouth is to Steve’s ear and starts pulling the brunet down the hall by his neck.

Someone, probably Tommy or his group of equally stupid friends, has made a show of throwing as much paper into the crowded halls as possible. At least one garbage can has been kicked over, spilling its papery contents into the path of raucous students.

As they walk through the main hall, tall and confident and handsome, Steve feels as if they could take on anything. That if he’s survived this year, he can do anything. With Billy by his side, a scrap of paper falling into his blond curls, they can take on the world and win. 

The song from the closing scene of that movie Nancy dragged him to last spring plays in his head as they walk through the front doors for the last time. Maybe Billy was the criminal, he thinks, as Billy pumps his fist to his own beat. That makes him the princess, though. Billy would get a kick out of that, if he knew Steve was accepting the dreaded nickname even for a second.

When he looks over at Billy, smile wide and whooping, blue eyes wild, he can see Bender pretty easily. Rebel without a cause. Someone whose softened up from their first introduction.

For a second, Steve is free.

Wild, like he can do anything in the world with this boy sitting in the driver’s seat of a blue Camaro. He never knew what people meant by reckless abandon until he’s here, wild and free and out of breath without running, with a wild boy in a car that goes to fast. His heart beats in his ears, blood rushing fiercely as he is finally free. Flying, with wild hair and dark sunglasses, loud music and a boy who could love him, kids shouting freely in the back.

He feels cheated when they stop, like they could’ve kept flying for the rest of their lives. Like they could’ve flown from Hawkins. From Indiana. From the responsibilities of being an adult. 

They end up at the diner on the edge of town with the kids twenty minutes later. The one with shitty coffee that Steve’s drank way too much of over his lifetime, but decent pie and pretty okay breakfast food all day. Dustin and Max both love the place with more enthusiasm than they really should.

Billy had grumbled at first, saying he had much better plans for their last day that involved a lot less clothes and a lot more drugs, but Steve had promised the kids they’d go out as an early celebration. Even if it took a lot of self control not to take Billy up on that offer. 

But they end up at the diner all the same, wrestling wiley kids into a booth that doesn’t fit them all. Billy ends up across from him, smashed into the wall with Max squished into his hard side. Dustin ends up next to Steve, innocent and oblivious as Billy’s foot creeps up Steve’s leg.

They order milkshakes and fries, because _Steve, it’s the first day of the rest of your life, what else would you eat._ And Steve contemplates protesting, but in the end he knows he’ll be paying, so whatever. Milkshakes and fries, a foot creeping up his thigh and innocence as they cause a scene.

Max orders strawberry, Billy vanilla ( _It’s classic, pretty boy,_ ) and Steve chocolate caramel. Billy steals all the cherries within his reach, receiving smacks to the hand and annoyed groans. He drinks Max’s milkshake even as she looks right at him and pushes his head away. He ruffles Will’s bowl cut and flirts so hard, so fake, with the waitress Steve can’t even feel jealous when she just about swoons.

Because that’s his. Kind of. They haven’t ever talked about it, but when those blue eyes connect with brown, he knows. That’s his. Billy is _his._ No matter what he says when he’s trying to shut everyone out.

And Steve wonders, really, if he’s ever seen Billy this carefree. Loose and easy and almost _happy._ Existing with these kids, in this diner, vanilla on his tongue, and a foot on Steve’s thigh.

Will still looks at him like he’s the sun. Steve wonders how he hasn’t noticed that before. But he knows, honestly, that his own face mirrors Will’s, now, everytime he looks at the boy across from him. 

It’s all so different. With Billy. With someone just as messed up as him, in different ways. With someone he doesn’t have to share his trauma with. With someone who doesn’t give a shit if he doesn’t cope right, who can drink him under the table, who will be so rough it doesn’t feel like he’s breaking anymore. Who will come to him, eventually, as broken and battered on the outside as Steve is on the inside.

Because Billy is the sun, and Steve is caught in his orbit. A careening rock, lost and floating in space, just to be sucked into this system. A system of annoying kids and a boy so bright you can’t look at him directly. A boy so bright he’ll burn you if you get too close, look too long. A boy so bright he combusts, burns from the inside out.

“ _Steve,_ ” Dustin is shouting, right in Steve’s ear. “Fuck, ow, you didn’t respond the first _hundred_ times I said your name, you don’t have to hit me. Jesus Christ.”

Billy throws him a wink, then kicks Dustin in the shin.

“What did I even do to deserve the _worst_ friends in the world,” Dustin moans, gripping his leg. Steve kicks Billy, hard, throwing the other limb off his leg, before he can start saying shit about Dustin calling them friends. It might actually kill Dustin if he realizes that he accidentally called Billy Hargrove his _friend._

It’s Will who speaks up next, emboldened by short beat of silence to make an announcement when all ears will hear it. “My mom wants you two to come over Sunday. She wants to throw a graduation party.”

“Just them?” Dustin asks, hand over his heart like he’s hurt.

“No, idiot, you guys are a given. Since when do you need an _invitation_ to show up anywhere?” He turns back to Steve and Billy, expectantly.

“‘Course we’ll be there kid, can’t let mother hen Byers down. Or Joyce.” Steve says, laughing as he gets a foot to the shin. 

They sip milkshakes and cause a ruckus, staying too long for what they’ve bought and Steve wonders if he’s ever actually been this happy. Maybe when he was really young, he had something like this, and when he was still friends with Tommy they had their good days and adventures and parties. But this. This is something different. This is freedom.

A boy with shitty hair and a surfboard tattoo, a group of rowdy kids he can’t stand most of the time, a milkshake with a stolen cherry, a blue Camaro that goes too fast. _This is freedom._

 

Hargrove and Harrington. Alphabetical. Too close for anyone to ever be in between. Steve waits impatiently for Billy in his seat, cap askew on fluffy hair, as the principal goes through an embarrassingly long and boring speech. The blond still hasn’t shown up when the names start getting called. 

Steve gives up on him as he crosses the stage, announcer skipping right over Billy’s name. Like he never existed. Though, most of Hawkins would probably prefer if he hadn’t. Especially Tommy and the rest of the stuck-up people Billy had hung around (and Steve had too, when he was popular and unchanged by Nancy and the upside down, stupid and even cockier than he was now, an asshole through and through) before they pissed the blond off enough that he’d throw his weight around and throw his fists like it was nothing. By the time graduation had come around, Steve and the party were really the only ones Billy had left that could stand him. Even Tommy stopped worshiping the ground he walked on after enough biting insults and rough hands were thrown his way. Steve wondered if this was on purpose, because then when Billy inevitably flew from this town, there’d be no one to stop him. To pin him down. He wonders when his time will come, when Billy will throw him away in a way he believed to be sacrificial.

In a stupid way, he’d hoped he’d get to share this moment with Billy in secret. Hoped for the strong hand on his knee or thrown over his shoulders or something to prove that they had _done this._ Survived their own battles and made it out alive. Made it out together. Made it out bent and bruised and broken, but made it all the same.

But he gets it, too. He gets that there wasn’t a lot that could’ve gotten Billy to sit through graduation, the stupid, stubborn prick. That Steve can’t be everything for Billy. He can’t be the only thing that keeps him going, the only thing that he has. He learned as much from Nancy, and the way she gravitated to Jonathan the second he gave her room to breathe. 

As he crosses the stage, his eyes catch on his parents, stoic and clapping lightly; then the kids behind, Dustin absolutely _losing his shit_ and screaming his head off like a dumbass; then finally, as he shakes hands with the principal, a jean clad figure standing in the gym doorway. Billy’s leaning casually against the door frame, handsome as ever while silhouetted by the sunlight outside. Like he’s some sort of angel, a wild hallucination, saluting Steve from across the room and disappearing by the time Steve reaches his seat again. He wonders if Billy was ever really there.

It makes his chest hurt in a familiar way. In a way that was never caused by Nancy, but came later. When he felt like he was alone in a world trying to eat him alive. When he could look over, during the worst day of his life, and see the stupid fuckers who brought him into that mess standing next to him like tween heros. When Dustin sat in his car before the snowball dance, worrying over his hair. 

It makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, he _belongs._ In a way that hanging out with Tommy and the rest of the shallow rich kids never could’ve made him feel. Because the people here, at his graduation, who came here only for him, gave a shit about him in a way that didn’t take his parents money, how good his kegstand is, his popularity, into account. 

Billy was just the tip of the iceberg.

Hot pin pricks in his eyes threaten to overflow as the rest of his class passes through without him actually hearing it.

Afterwards, it doesn’t seem like it really matters that Billy didn’t show up to be the upstanding student he wasn’t (despite a record of straight A’s that Steve didn’t fucking understand) because standing there in the door frame with eyes only for Steve felt a lot more meaningful. Like he was there, only for Steve as he crossed the finish line, as if this moment witnessed by a whole world of people was only for them. So he’d been forgiven, for making Steve sit through the worst speech of his life alone.

 

Billy looks like hell when he shows up to the Byers’ house on Sunday, the day after the graduation ceremony. He’s alone and over an hour early, with a split lip and what definitely feels like a broken rib or two. The worst part is the way Joyce looks at him, like she could cry right there and then as he stands in her doorway. Even though his face has mostly come out unscathed, he can’t stand up quite straight and he’s leaning on the door for support rather than his image. 

he walked right into it. He knew it would happen the second he didn’t show up for graduation. It was inevitable. His own damn fault. But it was worth it, because in some sick way it gave him a taste of power that he’s always desperate for. 

“Tell me what to do. I can’t cook for shit. But tell me what to do,” he says to Joyce, who’s frozen to her spot in the hall. _Please,_ he begs silently, _don’t ask, don’t talk about it, not now._

And she gets it, because she _knows_ broken boys and escapism. “You can help Jonathan cut the potatoes,” she directs. There is no offer for help to get him there, but he wouldn’t have accepted anyway. She knows this, knows that he’s too proud for help. When he isn’t paying attention, too focused on staying upright and not cutting off any bruised fingers, Joyce calls Hopper. Tells him to come early, to say it’s to help out, to bring some bandaids for the bathroom because all she’s got are Scooby-doo themed, to _fucking do something about this, you’re the chief of fucking police, can’t you just arrest the bastard?_

He doesn’t do this, normally. Doesn’t ever show up to the Byers’. He goes to the quarry, to the cabin, to Steve’s. But Steve is rounding up all the other kids from the arcade and those at the cabin are coming to the Byers’ anyway, so he shows up there and regrets it as soon as he does. 

He can’t stand the way Will approaches him like he’s a wild animal that needs to be tamed. Like he will explode if he steps too loud. He hates that it’s an accurate fear to have, right now. Sometimes he doesn’t. Revels in the fear he causes, the pain. The ease of making someone submit to his will. 

Billy is dangerous, and he’ll never forget it. No one ever will.

Will just stands there, next to him as he chops potatoes. Says, “There’s bandaids in the bathroom. I took them out for you, if you need them. They’re Scooby-doo, because Scooby-doo is the shit.”

And Jonathan says, “Don’t say shit.”

And Billy just wonders again when this happened. When his life became this. Wonders what Will sees when he looks at him. If he still sees the danger, the anger bubbling hot under Billy’s skin. If he believes Billy’s monsters to be tamed. Wonders, wonders, wonders. Because knowing is just out of reach. Knowing is circling over him as he stands, broken in a kitchen where he broke someone else, teasing the thought of an easy existence.

Danger is something Billy understands. Knows. Monsters are people and Billy is one of them, parading through a warm house full of familial love like he belongs when everything about him screams that he doesn’t. 

He wonders what it will be like to die, then, like Zombie Boy next to him supposedly did. If he would be missed now, if his father takes it too far one day. He doesn’t want to be missed, or known, or held onto. He wants to be gone, to exist only superficially so when he never looks back at Hawkins only those who saw his brash exterior will talk in amazed tones.

Billy Hargrove is danger, chopping potatoes as a woman worries too much in another room.

He is so ready to leave. To leave Hawkins in his dust, in the wake of Billy Hargrove.

Because danger looks like a short man with a mustache, because monsters are what you make them, because the worst thing Billy’s ever seen still wears his own blood’s skin. Death doesn’t frighten Billy anymore. Living does. Living has always been scarier than death because he faces death every morning in the kitchen over a cup of coffee. Because death is inevitable, predictable, but life isn’t.

Because Billy can’t fuck up death, but he sure as hell can fuck up life.

He doesn’t want to die, most of the time, he just doesn’t want to go home.

Will takes the knife from him, eventually, replacing it with a bag of frozen peas and insisting he go sit down. He doesn’t. He can’t. If he stops moving now, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to start again.

So what, if he’s a little melodramatic, it’s his life and he’ll wallow if he wants to. 

Joyce gets it. She pushes him to set the table and tasks him with not burning the vegetables on the stove. 

El and Hopper get there first, early even if Billy’s not paying attention to the time. By then he’s almost normal again, smooth and crawling back from the edge of an abyss. El coaxes him to the living room, the same as she did the first time they met. Like he may be fire, raging and hot, but she can’t be burned. 

Joyce takes Hopper outside, for a _smoke,_ and even though everyone in the house knows that’s a lie, no one says a thing. 

The kids arrive in a trail of noise, bickering and yelling and happy, even though they just shoved four kids, an almost-man, and a skateboard into a four door sedan. They swarm the tiny home like bees, buzzing with young energy. 

When Steve crosses the threshold, he just whispers, _Billy,_ soft and low like they’re the only two in the room. Billy knows what it means, when Steve says his first name like that. They don’t use first names, only _Hargrove_ and _Harrington_ and _pretty boy_ and _King Steve._ Even now. Especially now. 

So Billy follows him, without needing any prompt, to the bathroom with Scooby-doo band aids.

“Jesus fuck, Hargrove,” Steve says, the second they’re alone. Billy thinks it's an exaggeration, this shaken tone, because he’s looked worse. “Why didn’t you just go?”

And Billy doesn’t say, _Because I’d rather die, because I have to take control somehow, because fuck Neil and fuck his rules._ He shrugs, instead. 

“Didn’t want to. Fuck that noise, ain’t my scene.”

There isn’t anything to say to that, because Steve’s full of fight. Full of an argument that would only make everything worse. Full of a hate that he doesn’t know what to do with, doesn’t even really have a right to. This is Billy’s fight, and Steve is only there to pick up the pieces where he can. Steve is only there to smoke and drink and fuck with, soothe when Billy’s caught. And it works. Because Billy can soothe in the same way Steve can, without knowing it. Without intent.

So Steve pulls off Billy’s shirt, soft and slow to see the blossoming purple and red on his abdomen, hot and fiery where muscle is stretched thin over hard bone. Billy lets him, because this is what they do now. Billy lets him because this boy, _this boy,_ still wants to. Billy lets him because soon, there won’t be the option anymore. He will leave Hawkins in pale Midwestern dust, destined for beaches and heat.

Fingers ghost over tender flesh, searching for abrasions that don’t exist. Billy won’t need the Scooby-doo bandaids, he already knew that, because you can’t bandage a fat lip, a purple torso, a bruised ego. 

Steve kisses him, soft and slow and easy, like the world outside doesn't exist. They stay there, cramped in a bathroom too small for two almost-men, huddled and deflated. 

“You gotta stop doing this,” Steve says, whispered into Billy’s ear, “Can’t you just stay out of trouble?”

Billy can’t say that there isn’t anything that will stop this, that he can’t stay out of trouble, that he _is_ trouble. That even if he did nothing, said nothing, there would still be something wrong in Neil Hargrove’s eyes. There is always danger, lurking under the surface, and Billy can’t avoid it. Drawn to it, like moth to a flame, he is danger and he will be burned. Or he will burn.

Because Steve still thinks life is fair, most of the time, and Billy isn’t going to be the one to ruin that for him. Not yet. Right now, Steve can imagine that it is, that things will change and life will work out eventually. And Billy will tell him some other time, when he’s so mad the world is all red. He will spit it out, that life isn’t fair and things will only get worse if he stays in Hawkins.

When they leave the bathroom, Billy is back to himself. To the harsh boy that Steve likes to think he knows, closed off even to those who have taken him in. The hint of vulnerability gone, disappeared faster than it came. Replaced by hostility and calm fire and barking laughter, sharp teeth and a sharper tongue. 

They eat in dull chatter and occasional awkward silence, when the conversation shutters and wide, secretive eyes stick to the faint purple of Billy’s lip. The kids, young and still somewhat oblivious, chat easily even as the adults don’t join in as much as they might’ve on a different night.

The grip on Billy’s thigh is death-like and unrelenting, hidden beneath a swath of tablecloth. Disgustingly protective and heavy, Billy tries to shake off the hand, too close for comfort. Steve doesn’t relent. Keeps the hand there, gripping harder with every brush. Heat licks the back of Billy’s teeth, rising up and ready to bite something other than the food on his plate. 

Everything they do is a competition, a fight, even an attempt at comforting.

“Billy,” Joyce says, breaking him from the silent fight with Steve, “Have you heard back from any colleges yet?”

It throws Billy for a loop, concerned and obviously not what she wants to ask. The real question is hidden underneath, heightened intensity with every passing second his bruises darken. _How are you getting out?_

No one will ask him that, just like no one will outright ask him what happens before he ends up on someone’s doorstep looking like a strange, enraged kicked puppy.

The hand on his thigh gets outright painful at the question, so he returns the grip with rivalling intensity until the other boy relents with a hiss. Fingernails leave red marks underneath tight jeans as Steve looks everywhere but Billy. 

“Didn’t apply anywhere,” he drawls, easy, without a hint of of the heat that flares in Steve’s ears. 

“ _What?_ ” The chorus comes from multiple people shoved around the tiny table and littered through the kitchen. Mostly from a fiery redhead, yelling from the living room where she’s sat beside Lucas; but also from Joyce and Hopper, and much quieter from the boy beside him.

“Ever heard of a fuckin’ gap year, Maxine?” He shouts back, as she tries to start talking again. She flips him off, smooth and easy before turning back to her conversation to ignore him. She knows how much it gets under his skin when people ignore him, and she uses it to her advantage, the little bitch.

Before he can say anything to piss her off more, to get under her skin as much as she does to him, Joyce reigns him in. “Billy,” she says, soft and distracting like she would if she were breaking up a spat between her own kids, “Why’re you taking a gap year?” Like she knows him. Like she gets to ask these questions. 

He hates her, for a second, because they _don’t_ talk about this, him and Steve. They don’t talk about a future that won’t happen. They don’t fantasize about how life could be different. They exist how they are, fleeting and flying and broken and angry, just for now. Because summer will come and go, as will Billy, and it’s a lot easier to pretend that it won’t end. That they can fuck freely and drink too much and life will work out fine.

Beside him, tension rolls off Steve’s shoulders in waves so thick Billy’s sure everyone in the room can feel it too. It’s hot and anxious, mirroring the first night Billy woke up to screaming beside him. It happened again, twice in the handful of nights he’s spent in the Harrington house since then, always hot and terrifying and wild in a way Billy would love to see when the other boy is awake. Would love that fiery heat to be about something outside his head. Then they really could have a good spar. 

His hand loosens from where it is still stuck to Steve’s thigh, slipping higher up to make that heat more intense. Steve pushes the hand off, rough and angry and almost going unnoticed by the other adults in the room. Billy knows e shouldn’t push, but today’s been shitty and he can’t help himself.

“Couldn’t afford the applications last fall,” Billy says, loud and stealing the attention away from Steve’s discomfort. That is _his,_ the passive witnesses aren’t allowed to see this, it’s too fun to keep Steve’s moodiness all to himself. “Gonna get a job and apply for the spring term.”

“Dude, really?” Steve asks, turning to the other guy finally, incredulous, “Applications are like thirty bucks.”

Billy barks a mean laugh at that, “And postage, _pretty boy._ Not all of us live in a fucking castle.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “It’s not a fucking _castle_ asshole, couldn’t you just ask your-”

“My parents, Harrington? Do you ever fucking think about what comes out of your mouth? We can’t all have a picture perfect fucking-”

“Boys!” Joyce yells, clapping her hands together, making Billy realize what had started as hushed, bitter whispers almost turned to shouts, as the two teenagers got closer together, chests puffed and eyes fiery. If they were alone, this would be the point in the conversation where they’d jump each other, hot and angry and mean, fucking until they felt somewhat calm and whole.

But they’re in a dining room full of people, mood flipped as easy as a light switch.

“Billy, you’re ruining dinner,” Maxine calls, rolling her eyes. 

“I need a smoke,” Billy says abruptly, pushing his chair back with a loud screech. The June breeze is still cool on his face in the pale setting sun, breathing air into his suffocated lungs. 

“Steve,” he hears Joyce say as he stalks out of the kitchen, “Are you sure you want to-”

She’s cut off by a second screech of an angry chair, pushed back into its place because Steve Fucking Harrington is some good guy with _manners._

Billy’s already halfway through a cigarette by the time Steve joins him, sucking in deep and fast to calm himself. So he doesn’t completely bite the head off the next person to come through the door. He’s _trying_ not to be as much of a douche, after all.

Steve doesn’t ask the question that burns the back of his tongue. _So you aren’t leaving?_ He’s not sure he actually wants the answer, he can’t imagine the answer is the one he thinks he wants. 

It’s so easy to say the wrong thing to Billy, to set him off like a firework on the fourth of July, raining down in hot red fury, lighting up the world around him. Sometimes Steve does it on purpose, when he’s looking for a fight, but now it’s usually on accident. Since they started fucking, that is. Steve Harrington has a great habit of saying the wrong thing when people get close to him, when he starts to actually care about a relationship. Exhibit A, Nancy Wheeler.

“Why are you so angry all the fucking time, dude?” He asks, echoing past nights at the quarry. 

He thinks he knows the answer, now, though. There isn’t a need to ask, anymore, but the words come easy, routine.

“You know I didn’t fucking mean shit,” Steve says, approaching Billy after a few deep inhales of his own cigarette, nicked from Billy’s jacket that was left in the Beemer. The jacket that he _might_ have taken to bed to keep the nightmares at bay. He can’t help it if the spicy scent of Billy’s cologne reminds him that he isn’t completely alone in an empty house, okay?

Billy groans around his smoke, deep and annoyed at both himself and the other guy. “I fucking know that, princess. You’re just so fucking clueless.”

Steve takes a deep breath, trying his hardest not to start snapping again, so quick to anger with that surrounding Billy Fucking Hargrove. “Shut the fuck up, Hargrove, you’re no better.”

There’s a long pause, as they both finish their cigarettes and Steve slips his arm through Billy’s. The other boy is warm and comforting, almost motherly as they stand in heavy silence. The anger and hurt will leave Billy eventually, soft and much slower than it ever comes to him. Never fully gone, but pushed down and back and controlled. 

“Today’s a shit fucking day,” Billy says, because it’s easier than trying to explain how his mood swings harder than a star hitter in the game of his life, how the smallest things set him off, how sometimes he gets so mad he can’t control anything and that’s fucking terrifying because all he wants is some damn _control._

“Joyce is just trying to be nice, dude,” Steve says, fresh unlit cigarette bobbing on his lips as he turns to look at Billy. The latter can’t help but get caught on how damn beautiful he looks like this, sunglasses hanging from his tee shirt and wild hair haloed by light flooding from the windows. Steve takes the cigarette from his lips and pushes it behind his ear like he knows what’s inevitable. He continues, “And I know I say stupid shit sometimes,” he rolls his eyes when Billy cocks an eyebrow, “Fine, maybe a lot of times. But you don’t have to fuckin’ blow up everytime I do. I don’t fight you everytime you’re a dick.”

Billy laughs, gravelly and quiet as he drops his cigarette butt in the ashtray that never leaves the back railing. “Princess,” he says as he closes the distance between them, “It’s never been a fair fight, but you never pass up the opportunity.”

When they kiss, Billy can still taste the heat of anger on Steve’s tongue, despite the lackluster passion of it. It’s slow and deep, comfortable now that they’ve done it many times. Steve’s hand finds its place at the nape of Billy’s neck, loosely gripping curls it finds there. Billy’s arms wrap tightly around his waist as he kisses, always on the brink of too much. 

“The dickheads are gonna be pissed if we don’t go play their stupid board games,” Steve whispers against his lips after a long moment of kissing, all the things left unsaid riding on the tip of his tongue, heavy in his mouth. They don’t talk about this, and it’s not going to change just because Steve’s heart does some stupid little tug whenever Billy wanders around hurt and still looks at him through thick lashes. 

“Can’t disappoint the dickheads,” Billy says, the edge dulled by cool, smokey air and warm lips, soothed without a traditional fight. Steve’s gotten pretty good at reading between the lines, when to push and when he has to suck in his pride and be the nice one. Billy continues, “They might sick their demogorgon or whatever the fuck their stupid shit is on us.” 

“That’s DnD, dumbass, they’d never let you in on that.”

“You think _I_ want to spend my Fridays playing a board game with a bunch of snot-nosed brats?” Billy laughs harshly, turning away to return to the house, dulled and feeling like he’s been rammed with a truck. And not just because his ribs are bruised. 

Steve grabs his arm, strong and steady. Like Billy won’t explode with the slightest spark. Like he knows that _already,_ he’s as much of the extinguisher as the fuel. Or he can be.

Billy’s forgotten how strong the other boy really is, so used to being able push through him, over him. He’s reminded frequently, of the burning strength in the muscles undulled by months from basketball season and not enough square meals. Billy’s bigger, stronger, harder, but Steve’s never been one to back down from a challenge. And that’s what Billy is. Everything about him is a challenge, a fight, from sex to moments like this.

Steve’s the only one who's really stood a chance, stubborn and tough and _strong._ Never backing down from a fight, even if the two of them are fighting a different battle. Billy can’t tell what they are fighting now, or if they’re on the same side.

“We good?” Steve asks seriously, deep and covering everything else heavy in the evening air. 

“For now, pretty boy,” Billy responds, sealing it with a somewhat chaste kiss. They will never be _good,_ not as long as Billy Hargrove is involved, but for now, this fight has died. 

Leaving Steve on the back porch, a confused smile on pink lips, Billy returns to the house where Jonathan and Nancy are washing dishes like it’s a conversation in itself. Which for them, a couple communicating silently more than with words most of the time, it might be. 

His easy demeanor is back in place by the time he ruffles El’s curls and the back door slams closed with the ease of someone who’s used it frequently. Unfazed by another routine fight, a kiss and make up. 

Joyce watches him now, almost as much as she watches her sons. Quiet and mostly unnoticed by the boys, she observes and takes little notes. She notes the spat over seemingly nothing; the way Max grips Billy’s wrist when he goes to remove his arm from the couch behind her shoulders; the way her youngest son shows his drawings off with pride in the living room, gifting a portrait of Steve walking across the graduation stage to Billy with a _because you weren’t there, you didn’t see it, asshole,_ and one of Billy smoking a cigarette on their back porch to Steve, _it’s only fair, Steve, for your dorm or whatever._ It’s easy to see that there is something more, something that her son knows about, might even be involved in in some roundabout way. She doesn’t pry, because as easy as it is to forget, she is not these kids’ mother. Her only sons are the shy boy with hidden damage and the one off in his own world with a girl and a camera.

Billy can feel the hot stare on his back as he accepts the graduation gift, making sure he isn’t too much of as asshole as he accepts. Doesn’t say that he was there, that he did see Steve cross the stage like a lanky young deer. Doesn’t ruin this for Will. Doesn’t spill the secret meant only for Steve.

They play a board game that Billy doesn’t care enough about to remember the name of, with cups of soda in their hands and slices of cake on their laps. Joyce had pulled it out of the fridge after dinner was cleared away, laughing about how it wasn’t very pretty but she promised it tasted good. _Congrats, Billy and Steve_ written hastily over the top of white frosting. The whole thing was nicer than anything Billy’s father had done for his graduation, obviously. So he thanked her and flashed those pearly white that make all the moms swoon.

Steve reclines comfortably next to him, the arm not draped over Maxine’s pointy shoulders over his. Only touching enough to be friendly, careful and secretive in the presence of so many wandering eyes. 

Maxine doesn’t hit him when he doesn’t give a fuck about the rules like she normally would, aware of how little it could take to make him break into rage again. She nags instead, loud and followed by a chorus of other complaining kids, until the whole thing dissolves into thrown game pieces and wrestling laughter of young teen boys. From beside him, Steve laughs at the dissolution of the best friends, face lighting up in a way reserved for the kids he says he’s annoyed by. 

“My parents leave for Barcelona on Tuesday, won’t be home till July,” Steve whispers to him as the night wraps up and they share a last smoke before returning the kids to their respective homes. Joyce had invited them all to a sleepover, but Maxine wasn’t usually allowed and Dustin’s mother said he was spending too many nights away from home, so the plan was nipped in the bud. Not before El had made sure Billy would be retreating to the cabin for the night though, to explain what a graduation was and why it mattered and to stay up too late watching whatever dumb movie she wanted. 

“So?” Billy shoots around the cigarette.

“Come over, idiot, have a real grad party, just us.”

It’s an offer Billy can’t refuse, and Steve knows it. Knows it because he’s got this smirk, the _I know you want me_ smirk that girls use on Billy all the time. A sparkle in his eye, loose posture that screams he knows too much.

“Roger that, amigo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this fic is officially longer than some of my favorite books in my google doc. I've never written anything this long before. Hell yeah my dudes.
> 
> So right now I have one more chapter planned out (could turn into two idk for sure yet) then I'll put out a side story (Dustin centric woo) that doesn't really fit in naturally that I already have written for this fic to make it a series. After that there will be another 2-4 chapters in this fic. It's almost over! Ah! I have some side stories/epilogue things already written so I might add those in as a separate fic, and if people like it I might continue the story as an AU series kinda thing. Anyway, that's my plan if you're interested!
> 
> PS. If you didn’t catch it, the movie Steve is thinking of is The Breakfast Club, which came out spring 1985. I fucked up while writing this and had it in my head that ST2 was set in 1985 this whole time for some reason so just go with it dudes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing the name of this fic and putting it as the series name bc I found a better name sorry.

Tuesday night appears in a flush on hot lips and burning skin, whiskey and cold water. Billy spent his morning and afternoon carting Maxine to and from school, catching glimpses of Steve in the parking lot, curly haired kid in tow. 

The middle school doesn’t let out until the week after the high school, trapping Billy into his chauffeur role for another ten days. It won’t end after that, though, not if his father has anything to say about it, but at least he’ll be able to get away from the hell hole that is Hawkins Middle after that. 

The sun is setting by the time Billy roars into the Harrington driveway, late in the evening as the days stretch longer. Pine trees are less intimidating around him, softened with melted snow and extra minutes of warm light. Billy could almost like it here, in the warmth.

Steve is silhouetted by the soft yellow glow of the lights he keeps on all the time, leaning against the open front door. Waiting for him. Waiting, languid and relaxed, like he has no reason to be afraid of Billy. Like Billy won’t bowl him over and laugh as he goes. A cigarette hangs loosely from the older teen’s lips, lit and smouldering as Billy approaches. A lion stalking his prey. The twist is, though, this time his prey is another predator ready to fight back.

“Happy graduation, Hargrove,” Steve says, pushing off the door frame as Billy approaches.

Billy crowds him in, firm back pressing against the side of his house. He picks the cigarette from his prey’s lips, sucking in deep and blowing the smoke over Steve’s lips.

“You get me a present, pretty boy?” He asks, tongue peaking out and licking smirking lips.

“Right in front of you, dumbass,” Steve says, eyebrows waggling as he slips his fingers through Billy’s belt loops. He gets pulled forward by them sharply, hips connecting with Steve’s, but he doesn’t let the latter connect their lips yet. Makes him wait for it, teasing with one arm propped over Steve’s head. The cigarette still hangs from his fingers, so he finishes with another long suck. A suck that hollows out his cheeks while his eyes connect with Harrington’s. Daring him.

The cig is barely from his mouth when Steve pulls him down and kisses the bitter flavor from his lips, inhaling the secondhand smoke with pleasure.

“The neighbours are going to talk,” Billy smirks, playful despite the real threat of gossipy small town neighbours, “Hawkins’ princess is getting corrupted by the out of state criminal.”

“Let them,” Steve responds, closing the gap but pushing Billy through the still open door anyway. “I don’t give a shit what they think.”

They burn as they connect, rolling through the house, against walls and furniture until they come to rest on Steve’s bed. Billy thinks of the laws of motion, of Newton and his supposed virgin death. Of how when he dies, no one will make the same claim of him, they will _know._ Steve Harrington will know, in this moment, it is obvious no one can cover up what Billy is for long.

How he was in motion, unopposed and unrelenting. How Steve Harrington knocked him from it, an outside force changing his path permanently. 

They haven’t well and truly fucked yet, only done things with mouths and rough hands, and Billy would give anything to get his dick in Steve. He doesn’t push it yet, Steve seems content and hands work well enough. He’s said it a few times now, whispered gravel in Steve’s ear, _I’ll fuck you so good, baby,_ or _I want you inside me, pretty boy, fuck me ‘till I can’t walk, baby._

But Steve still tenses everytime Billy’s hands stray too close, despite the shuddering groans when Billy runs his mouth. So they don’t. Not yet. Billy will have him someday, and though patience has never been one of his virtues, he can wait. He doesn’t ask if Steve’s ever done anal, even with a girl, doesn’t need to when it’s so painfully obvious. So he waits. Blows Steve’s supposedly straight little mind with the best head he’s ever gotten.

Steve always moans like a damn porn star when Billy swallows his come or licks it dirtily from his fingers, so that’s what he does. Wet tongues, salacious enough to be ashamed of in the light of day if Billy ever decided to have any sensibility, pass unspoken secrets and bitter truths.

As they lie in bed, hot and breathing heavy, Steve laughs and rolls to rest his arm around Billy’s naked stomach. His head falls onto a muscular shoulder, easy and almost routine. “I fucking _knew_ you had a hard on for Bender.”

“Princess, have you even seen the damn movie? I _am_ Bender.”

“I knew you weren’t smart enough to come up with your own stupid pet names.”

Billy plows through the insult, not bothering to dignify it with any attention. “And you’re Claire, obviously, rich parents and a Beemer in the driveway, spoiled and hot shit ‘till I rolled into town.”

“Asshole.”

“See? Exactly what the princess would say.”

Steve laughs at him, low and happy in the afterglow of an orgasm. Uncaring that this boy in his bed, young and free and his, is making fun of him. 

Billy watches as Steve falls asleep, still hot and sweaty on his chest. Grabs the book from Steve’s bedside table and cracks it open. Under the pale light of the overhead light he reads through nearly half of _Giovanni’s Room_ before Steve’s eyes crack open and he groans loudly. 

“Really turning into a raging queer, Harrington,” Billy says from behind the book, “Thought you told curly dweeb that _books are overrated, live in the real fuckin’ world’_?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve groans as he sits up and stretches, “I stand by that point, by the way. I’m just trying to figure shit out, okay?”

“By reading about a gay dude who gets executed?”

“Yeah, whatever, it was the only book at the library. With. You know.”

“Queers.”

“Do you always have to be so fucking crass, dude?” Steve shimmies up to rest his back against the headboard. “I need a smoke.” 

“Thought you already had shit figured out,” Billy says, following Steve to the window and grabbing a smoke of his own. “Just hadn’t fucked a guy yet, or some bullshit.”

Steve doesn’t look at him as he says it, grabbing the book from Billy instead and tossing it back to the bed before lighting up and practically hanging out the window with his first exhale. “Yeah, man, I don’t fucking know, okay?”

“What’s there to know? You want to fuck guys. Simple shit, pretty boy.” Billy blows his smoke out the window and licks his lips at the other boy. Pink tongue dragging over sharp teeth.

They are both only wearing hastily pulled on boxer shorts, both Steve’s because Billy flat out refuses to wear any of his own. Ever. Commando only. Steve’s hair is asolutely _fucked,_ fallen partially on his forehead and rumpled in the back. The moonlight bounces off it and makes his absurdly pale skin appear inhuman. Like some sort of fallen angel, never before seen the kiss of sun. Ethereal. It still rolls Billy's stomach, to see this. To feel anything but anger towards this boy he's spent a stupid amount of time seducing and hanging around. 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, whatever. I just. Didn’t think I was ever actually gonna do it, you know? Thought I was just gonna settle down with some bitch we went to school with and have some shitty kids and be miserable for the rest of my life in this town. You fucked it up. I had a plan, man.”

“A fuckin’ shit plan. You can’t hide being gay forever. Woulda ended up killing yourself.” Billy doesn’t elaborate, just sucking his cigarette like it’s fresh air and he’s been drowning. Drowning in Steve Fucking Harrington.

“I’m not gay,” Steve says around his cig, watching the pool outside instead of the boy next to him.

Billy laughs harshly. “Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. I mean. I like girls too. Don’t you? Can’t count on two hands how many girls you fucked this year.” Steve holds his cigarette like an old woman who’s done with the world would. Between his pointer and middle fingers, tight and almost crushing. Like Cruella De Vil.

“No.” 

“Seriously? Why’d you fuck them, then?”

“I’ve got an image, _King Steve,_ ”

“Whatever. You don’t have to be gay to fuck a guy.”

“Sure, pretty boy. Sure.”

Steve blows smoke out the window, Billy having made him long since give up on not smoking in the house. As long as it isn’t weed, and they blow the smoke out the window, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like his parents are there to care. They’re too busy flaunting their money around Europe and America, forgetting they have a son as his father attends business meetings. 

“Baldwin’s good,” he says after a second, and Billy chooses to ignore how he’s stopped addressing the whole ‘not-gay’ thing, “Easy to follow. Real. Not like the sci-fi shit the kids like.”

Billy just watches him, hollowed cheeks around a cigarette and melancholy in brown eyes. Steve tastes of that melancholy, sometimes, of deep-rooted cold and winter even as the sun shines bright. 

Steve continues when Billy doesn’t respond, doesn’t push or tease. “You’re like Giovanni,” he says, still staring out at the pool, “Dangerous. Attractive. Corrupting David.”

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

“Pretty boy, you’re attracted to danger,” Billy says, because he can taste that electricity in the air. How he may not know what happened last fall before or after Maxine knocked him out, but he knows it was something major. Drew Steve in like a moth to a flame, high off the adrenaline of a fight. He knows because he can see it every time he tests Steve, can see the fire behind dull eyes, can taste the fight on his skin. “You can’t stay away.”

Steve looks at him then, tired but not yet deflated. Energized enough by the nap after sex. “Tormented. And he hides it behind bravado and stupid shit.”

Billy moves closer, smoke tinged breath mixing with Steve’s in the cool summer night air from the window, “Does that make you David, princess? A fuckin’ twink stuck in a life he doesn’t control?” His fingers ghost up Steve’s bare thigh, a reminder of their shared lack of control. “Is Nancy supposed to be Hella in this story? You think you’re going back to her?”

“No. Shut the fuck up, Hargrove. You know that’s not how it is.”

“You started it, pretty boy.” 

“I’m ending it. And you were the one who started it all with the Bender shit.”

“Touché.” Billy’s tongue darts out from his lips in the way he knows drives Steve crazy.

“God, you’re such a dick,” Steve says before leaning in and finally kissing Billy. They stay there, stuck in their own worlds but connected at the mouth and hands and thighs until they need to come up for air and more cigarette smoke.

Later that night, under the Indiana stars, they swim naked. They are young and free as steam rises around them. Billy burns hot, glistening in the pool as Steve watches on. His curls drip and hang on his forehead, even as he shakes them like a dog to annoy the other boy. He approaches like a predator, tongue out and sliding across pointed teeth. Threatening.

Billy Hargrove is fire and fury, dampened by the cool rain that is Steve Harrington. 

Over a bottle of expensive rum and air-drying nakedness, Steve asks him why he never takes off the necklace that burns hot on his breast despite its cold metal. 

He hasn’t taken it off in four years, two months, and five days. 

“It was my mom’s,” Billy tells him, tongue loosened by the alcohol, “St. Flora.”

“You Catholic?”

“No,” Billy says, stuck in the stars. Far away from the boy seeping warmth a breath away from him on hard poolside concrete. “Not for a long fuckin’ time.” Four years, two months, and five days.

“What happened to her?” Steve asks, tipsy in a good way, just far gone enough to float away into the night sky. Enough to ask a question that could get him punched. Or worse.

Billy’s arm is stretched behind him, propping his head up from the cold ground. The other holds the bottle of rum. He takes a messy swig, barely lifting his head up. “Died. Four years ago. Got the flu one day. Dead the next week. Something about a compromised immune system.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, caught in space a million miles away from the other boy. He’s deflated and spaced out, high in the stars. “I’m sorry,” he says, because he knows it’s what people say in times like these. Steve rests his arm across the plane of Billy’s chest, attempting to ground the two of them. To take them back down from the stars. He’s still stuck in Billy’s orbit, careening and flailing out of control.

The words are on the tip of his tongue, a secret not his to share. _A girl died in my pool, well, got sucked through to a different dimension and died there._ Billy glows in the moonlight, like a porchlight that Steve can’t stop circling until he inevitably crashes into him so many times it causes his own destruction. _I can’t stop looking at it, like she’ll come crawling back through if I look away._ Billy deserves something, Steve thinks, a trade of the same magnitude. It doesn’t come, instead just a warm arm and a spacey boy lost in his own world.

They sleep under the stars, cold and huddled together, clad only in boxers again. 

Billy makes pancakes for breakfast, waking Steve from where he’s been moved to the couch in the morning. 

“You stayed,” Steve states as he drowns his mediocre pancakes in maple syrup. 

“You’re fuckin’ welcome, pretty boy,” Billy retorts, before making fun of just about everything Steve does. The vulnerability long gone in the light of day. 

 

It takes two full weeks for Steve to maintain the attention span to finish a book that would’ve taken Billy a couple hours of forced solitude courtesy of Neil. Not that he’d ever take a book like that home. But still. The guy is shit at reading and even worse at focusing. It’s a wonder he scraped by to graduation, Billy thinks.

Hot sun beats down on Hawkins and Billy revels in it. Revels in the cool chlorinated water around his calves, the heat of his skin under a sheen of tanning lotion. Steve lies on a pool chair behind him, eyes closed behind dark sunglasses. The kids are in the public pool, splashing and diving and generally annoying everyone else there. Max smiles at him, occasionally, in the way that screams young innocence. Happiness and pure friendship, in a way Billy doesn’t think he’d ever had, maybe even in Cali.

The first week of real June freedom (according to Maxine, summer doesn’t really start until her school lets out, or what is actually almost the third week of June) brings sun and mild warmth, hot, secret kisses by the pool and carting Maxine to the nearest body of water. 

After graduation, Billy mellows out even more. Without the looming threat of his grades and Neil and people he couldn’t stand at the high school it was a lot easier to sit back and enjoy the sun. 

Which Billy does often. Frequently with Steve and the kids. More often just with Steve.

Billy wonders if this is what happiness in Hawkins feels like. 

They eat popsicles until their lips are stained and drink soda with rum. They watch behind dark shades as kids swim with reckless abandon. They lie on towels and pool chairs, smoking cigarettes like they can’t live without them. They kiss, hot and secret, in almost every place they can. Billy’s hands stick to Steve like he’s a fly drawn to honey only to drown in it. Touching whenever he can get away with it.

He hasn’t needed the punching bag or spare couch at Hopper’s cabin since school let out. To which El routinely shows her conflicted displeasure to when they meet at the weekly dinners. 

“Come over. Jim never lets anyone come over,” she said to him, hushed and glaring at her adoptive father from the Byers’ living room one night. “No bad stuff. Just cartoons.”

He promised her that he will, but he doesn’t show up. 

Maxine looks at him with disgust, her lips curled up and ugly, eyebrows furrowed. A sweating beer can in one hand and a smoke between his lips, Billy sits as close to Steve as socially acceptable. Well, maybe a little closer, but the kids are too preoccupied by their own shit to notice or care.

“You’re lungs are gonna turn black if you keep smoking so much. You’re gonna make Steve drop dead.”

“What do you want, Maxine?”

“Drive us to the arcade.”

“No.”

“C’mon, Billy.”

He can practically hear how much she wants to stomp her foot. “Ask nicely,” he prods.

“Dude, please? No one brought their bikes.”

“Fine,” he says, sliding his shades down with one finger to look her in the eyes that match his own, “In an hour. Fuckin’ shower first, too. You’re not making my car smell like a damn public pool.”

Max plops down on the end of Billy’s lounger, droplets of water falling onto his shining legs from her hair. Her eyes roll as she shoves him over, skinny hips prodding him to the side to make room for herself. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to replace the reek of cigarettes and cologne.”

He pushes her shoulder lightly, sending more drops of water flying as she slings her head around. With one smooth motion, she plucks the melting popsicle from where it balanced between the fingers unoccupied. Which truthfully, isn’t many. But Billy’s always been a multi-tasker. 

“Did you really have to hold this in the _same_ hand as your cigarette? It tastes like ashes.”

“Don’t steal my damn food and then complain to me about it, shitbird.” 

She laughs and shoves him over more, which he allows with only mild protesting and lightly thrown elbows, to slide next to him as she eats his damn popsicle.

“Hey, kid, this is not a two person thing.” 

Maxine shrugs at that, jabbing her pointy shoulder into his. “Don’t care.” 

Her teeth get stained dull red from the popsicle, rivalling the pink forming on the bridge of her freckled nose. 

“Put sunscreen on, dickhead,” Steve says from his position on the other lounger, leaning across the arm with his sunglasses slid to the tip of his big nose to look at the uncomfortable pair. Or at least, the uncomfortable guy he’s been routinely fucking. He tosses a tube at the girl and pushes his dark shades back up. “You’re getting burnt.”

Maxine catches the bottle easily, sticking her tongue out at the other boy as he returns to reclining. She rubs the thick cream onto her face. “We never used to wear this shit in Cali,” she says to Billy despite reddening cheeks. With a quick finger, she swipes a line down his nose and laughs wickedly.

He groans as he wipes it off, elbowing Max in the process. “And you got burnt to shit in Cali, too, dumbass.” 

He slaps the popsicle stick away when she throws it at him. With a final shove, she pushes off the chair, unsticking herself from Billy’s side.

“The fuck was that about?” Steve asks, watching as Maxine lazily walks back to her friends in the pool. 

“Hey assholes!” She shouts, “Arcade in an hour. My dick brother is making us shower first, though.” Then she dives dangerously close to where Lucas is treading water, causing him to shriek. Dustin laughs at him, mocking despite wearing the most ridiculous pair of goggles they sell.

“She just willingly touched you _and_ called you her brother. In the span of like, a minute.”

Billy shrugs, “Dunno, man.”

Even though he does know. They both know he’s going to split the second he gets the chance. He didn’t leave after graduation mostly because he’s still technically a minor and Neil could and would make his life hell by filing a missing persons report. A much smaller part of himself kept him here to have a few months of freedom with Steve. 

But Maxine knows he will leave soon, and she’s trying to shove as much sibling acceptance into their last few weeks. The idea of him leaving and her still hating him even if she really doesn’t anymore doesn’t sit right. She’s never had a brother before, and it doesn’t feel quite right to try and go back to how things were last summer. When they were somewhat happy. So instead she chooses a pair of siblings (Jonathan and Will) and tries to emulate their easy comfort and playfulness. For these last few weeks, she can be an okay sister if he can be an okay brother.

Half an hour later, the kids track water through the house as they make their way to the _three_ different Harrington bathrooms. All five shower separately and taking too long, boys old enough and far enough into puberty to be uncomfortable around the others where they previously had not been. All self-conscious and obviously so far from sports teams. Billy can’t count on two hands how many guys he’s showered with. Time is of the essence. Forty-five minutes later, pushing past Billy’s hour rule and stepping on his nerves, the damp kids are piling into Billy and Steve’s respective cars.

Maxine, Will, and Lucas end up in the Camaro, the others in the Beemer. Will climbs into the front seat, allowing the sort-of couple to share the back, much to Billy’s displeasure. 

“Hands to your damn self, Sinclair,” Billy glares in the rear view mirror before turning the radio to the loudest setting. Will sticks his hand out the window as Billy whips down winding country roads, hair blowing in the breeze while they leave the Beemer in their dust. The younger boy messes with the radio, despite Billy smacking his hand away from the radio repeatedly.

After Billy gives up, Will messes around until the radio settles on some alt bullshit, loud and moody and not nearly angry enough for Billy to appreciate.

God, Billy hates these damn kids. How the hell did he get stuck with all of this?

“You’ve got three hours, shitheads, if you’re not out when I get here you’re walking,” Billy threatens over dark glasses and around a cigarette.

When Billy and Steve return to the Harrington residence, they have sex in the backyard. Hidden from the sight of prying neighbours, they roll and fight in the grass. Rough hands and laughter, they lie out of breath on the cool ground until they have to pick up the brats and cart them all back to the Byers’ for Dungeons and Dragons and dinner.

 

Five days later, lying beneath the hot sun Steve brings it up.

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”

They _don’t_ talk about this. They have sex and drink and smoke. They _don’t talk about shit like this._ Steve has no right.

“You know I can’t stay,” Billy’s bright eyes glint in the summer sun, his body firm and pressed tightly against Steve’s. The pool chair groans under their combined weight, too small for two almost men. They lie like this frequently, usually after swimming or just because Billy need the sun more than any plant. The heat that radiates off Billy is so hot Steve could swear he’s been burned. “This place will kill me, if I stay.”

The words unspoken sit heavy between the two of them. Billy doesn’t need to say what he means, that either his father will kill him one day or he’ll kill himself. Doesn’t need to say that every second he spends in Hawkins feels like a year off his life, that even the hot Indiana sun of the summer couldn’t keep him here. 

“You’re being dramatic,” Steve says, even if he doubts the truth of his own words. This was temporary from the start, and he knew it when he signed up.

There’s only a hum in response. Steve feels it more than he actually hears it, from where his head rests on Billy’s slick chest. 

He doesn’t get this often. This soft Billy who rests his hands on Steve’s waist and chin in his messy brown locks. This soft Billy who kisses his forehead when he thinks Steve won’t notice, when he thinks he’s asleep. It’s rare to get anything but harsh and biting anger. He’s seen this Billy maybe twice since they started whatever it was they are doing.

Billy is hotter than the sun and just as blinding. Look at him for too long and you’ll be burned. Steve found that out the hard way. 

Steve wonders what life will be like when Billy’s out of his. How he will have changed permanently. Unsure if it will be for the better. All he knows is that he will have changed. The past year has changed him in a way he never before thought possible, and the hard boy beneath him had almost as much to do with it as the demodogs.

Doom is imminent, lurking in the summer sky and in the dark woods like clouds filled with cold rain and monsters waiting to pounce. Steve can feel it on the back of his neck, the goose bumps on his arms despite the hot weather. 

This was always meant to be temporary. Not serious and without commitment. It’s Billy, Steve never was supposed to expect anything similar to what he would’ve expected from a townie girl. He never did. It’s _Billy._

Billy Hargrove is rolling through town like a burning flame, knocking everything in his path down and leaving destruction in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It you want to read this series chronologically, I'm posting a side little story and you should read it between this chapter and the next one. It has nothing to do with the plot of this fic though.


	14. Chapter 14

Billy turns eighteen in mid July. He takes Max out for milkshakes at Steve’s favorite diner, her blue eyes shining.

“What time?” She asks, throat catching.

“Midnight,” he replies, not looking at her, not saying what he’s supposed to. Not saying that he’s sorry, that he’ll miss her, that everything is going to be okay. Because it wouldn’t be true. He isn’t sorry. He might miss her but he’ll get over it quickly. Nothing will be okay, because he’s a Hargrove. And so is she, now, kind of.

She doesn’t tell him she’ll miss him, either. Instead, she says, “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You’re leaving me with them,” her eyes are bright and fiery, looking too much like Billy’s for him to miss, “Alone.”

“You know I have to.”

“I know,” she whispers, soft and deflated, “But I still hate you for it.”

“I’ll survive, kiddo,” he can’t even work himself up to be mad at her, the prospect of leaving too hot on his mind.

“Will I?” She asks around her straw. She won’t look at him. Instead, her eyes flick to every garish color in the diner. 

“It’s only four years,” he says, like it wouldn’t be a death sentence for him, “He likes you. You’ve got the nerds. And Hopper. He’s good with that shit.”

In the Camaro, Billy drives too fast and turns the music up too high. They scream along with the rocaus song on the radio that Susan would huff at, loud and angry at the world. Max sings and screams until she cries the hot tears she told herself she wouldn’t let fall. Because why did life have to be so hard all the time? Why did he have to leave as soon as she stopped hating him?

She doesn’t hate him for leaving. She knows he has to. She knows that everything he is and was is because of Neil, and that he won’t survive in Hawkins much longer. But it doesn’t make her feel any less abandoned, any less damaged.

But she’s young enough to forget him, young enough to make a life in Hawkins, Indiana with a band of kids who play too much Dungeons and Dragons and go on too many dangerous adventures.

Life isn’t ending, but that doesn’t make it feel less disastrous.

 

Billy had planned on leaving without saying goodbye. Two days prior, he had broken things off with Harrington. Told him that it was over, that there wasn’t anything there, that he was leaving and never coming back. He had let Steve yell at him, throw punches at him and tell him how much of an idiot he was. Let him tell him how fucked everything was. 

It had been in Steve’s backyard, unusually cloudy for the region’s summer. Wind whistled through trees, harsh and biting. The sky tinged sickly green, reminding Billy of where he was in the world. The threat of a tornado looming over them. Thick air smelled of blood and rain, without either having been spilt yet.

The sky had dared him, competitive and heavy. Dared him to rise to it, compete with it’s sullen stirring anger, to rival it. He did. He never could back down from a challenge.

“Pretty boy,” he had said, letting the name sit thickly on his tongue as it was likely one of the last times it would come to rest there. “This is over.” The sky cackled over them, threatening. 

Steve stared at him, eyes narrowed. His hair danced in the warm breeze, skittering over his forehead. “The fuck does that mean?” He had asked. His hand rose to the back on his neck, tugging on the overgrown hair that curled there. 

“It means, _idiot_ that I’m not touching your fucking dick anymore. We’re done.” 

“Bullshit,” he said, echoing Nancy from that fall. “What the hell are you actually saying?”

Steve approached him like a wild animal, suspicious and confused. He pushed two fingers into Billy’s chest, arrogant and accusatory. Like he knew what was best for Billy. Like he knew Billy at all.

Fingernails dug crescent moons in Billy’s palms, biting pain the only thing that kept him from throwing a punch. 

“Don’t kid yourself, princess,” the words dripped from his lips sickly sweet as his fists tightened further, “Did you think I fucking _loved_ you or some shit? Did you really fucking think this was more than an easy fuck to get me through this shit hole town?” Billy could see the red in Steve’s eyes, blurring his vision with sharp anger. With hurt. Could see Steve’s fists curl before they swung violently.

Billy rolled with the punch, expecting it the second he witnessed Steve’s usual over-the-top wind up. Stepped back, not out of the line of fire but enough to take the hit like a man when it connected with his cheekbone. He let his body move with it, let himself fall into the easy routine used by his father, let himself be hit in a way he knew wouldn’t bruise badly but would still ease the anger of the one throwing. He ducked the second hit, a softer one that Steve wasn’t even sure he wanted to toss. 

Billy Hargrove, master of fights and getting too riled up too easily, didn’t hit back. For possibly the first time in his life, when he could so easily fight his opponent and win, he didn’t hit back. _Didn’t_ rise to the physical fight, despite goading it into being.

“You’re a piece of shit, Hargrove,” Steve said, loud and in Billy’s face. His pointer finger dug into the exposed flesh of Billy’s chest. Billy had felt a slippery trickle of blood at that, running through the fingers still piercing his own palms. “And a fucking liar.”

Steve had pushed again, not quite as hard the second time. 

“It doesn’t fucking matter, Harrington. None of this shit. None of it ever fucking mattered.” Billy could see the wetness in Steve’s eyes, choked back and hidden, pushing him farther. He wouldn’t get it. Billy could spell it out for him, right there and then, and he still wouldn’t ever get it. 

“Bullshit.” Steve spat the word again as he backed away from the other boy finally. His wide eyes, the ones Billy couldn’t seem to get enough of, were red rimmed and turned down.

“I’m leaving. You’re not gonna see me again,” Billy said as he crossed the backyard to make his final exit. 

Steve had gotten the last word in, much to Billy’s annoyance. He had shouted after him. “I don’t fucking _want_ to ever see you again. Don’t come back!” The last sentence had been choked, a pitch too high for Billy to believe him. 

When he reached his car, he had to pry his nails from where they sunk in his palms. He’d beat the steering wheel bloody, unwelcome pinpricks behind his eyes. The first drops of rain fell to Billy’s windshield as he tore from the Harrington’s driveway. The vicious green clouds mirrored his intensity as he raced through town to the only place he knew.

 

Billy still flinched anytime Hopper touched him, hell, sometimes just when Hopper got close enough to touch him. So when El flicked open all the cabin’s locks with her mind seconds before the door flung open with a force that can only be contained by someone like Billy Hargrove, Hopper backed off. Let the boy, steam practically erupting from his ears, storm through the cabin just to make a scene. To show the world, or at least this tiny part of it, his anger without protest. He’d yelled something at El, loud and mean and not even actually aimed at her where she sat defiant on the couch. 

“It’s not fucking worth it, El.” He’d paced around the tiny living room, fists clenched and jaw working hard around his words. Hopper wondered when he’s supposed to intervene. If he’s supposed to intervene. “It’s not fucking worth it. Fucking stupid. Boys are fucking stupid, El, don’t ever fucking get attached to anyone. It’s shit. It’s all shit.”

Billy didn’t even look like he knew what he was saying, so uncalculated and raw, unlike the way he usually formed his retorts in his head as someone else was talking. Hopper watched as Jane’s eyebrows furrowed closer together at every shouted word, her face reddening progressively in a way Hopper knew too well. The way that made her so similar to the boy in the room with her, the only difference is when their transitions started, when their rage began to be pushed down, who their targets were.

The back door slammed open when Jane threw her arm out at it. “Out,” she said, staring down the wreck of a person in front of her, “Come back when you’re done.”

Billy stormed out like a silent hurricane, slamming the door hard enough to rattle its frame and immediately unleashing onto the punching bag.

 

Eventually, Hopper joined Billy in the storm. Rain hammered into the ground, swirling madly. Billy’s curls dripped onto his already drenched cut-off tee shirt, placid in the begrudging storm. He smoked a cigarette, pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he leaned against the back railing. Three more cigarette butts littered around him, staining his fingers with nicotine. 

Hopper took note of the blood, thinned by the rain and running over everything. It flowed down Billy’s bare arms, watery red and sticky clumps of clot. The older man pulled out a cigarette of his own, never really sticking to his continuous resolve to quit. Let Billy light it for him.

“Look, kid. I don’t give a shit about what’s going on between you,” he took a deep inhale of his cigarette, barely able to keep the cherry lit as wind and rain danced angrily around them, “and Steve.” It was true. He couldn’t care less about whatever stupid shit the kids he’d been stuck with got up to. And honestly, after all these years of being a cop, he couldn’t bring himself to hate what Billy was. He’d seen too much shit that was so many million times worse than it. Not that he ever wanted to know the details. Of any of the kids’ little love lives, though. 

“There’s nothing _going on_ between me and Harrington,” Billy spat.

But he wouldn’t meet Hopper’s eyes, and Hopper had seen his share of lying perps in his life. 

With the encouragement of Hopper’s best disapproving Cop Look™, Billy added, “Anymore.”

Hopper smoked some more, silent and as rough as the boy beside him looked. “He the one that caught you in the face?” He asked, because Billy had shown up as a storm that it didn’t take a detective to figure out was different from all the other times he’d shown up broken at the cabin.

Billy nodded, sharp and curt. The rain did little to conceal the hot, angry tear tracks on his cheeks.

“‘Cause you’re leaving on Tuesday?” 

“How’d you know about that?” 

“Kid, you don’t become the chief of police without simple reasoning skills.” 

“Yeah,” Billy admitted, looking away from the chief once again, “Yeah. Had to end it.”

Hopper nodded, cigarette between his lips. He didn’t _get it,_ this thing between those two boys. Wasn’t sure he wanted to get it. But he knew what it was like to be in love, to be in love and fuck it up so badly the world crumbled around him. He understood what it meant to be drowning and to have someone rescue him, to pull him up from the depths. El had been that for him, this past year. She had given him a reason to exist outside himself again, to be better, something to protect. And though it was different, fatherly instead of romantic, he could see the same in the broken boy smoking cigarettes like they’re candy next to him. 

He could feel the sharp, tense muscles of Billy’s shoulder flinch violently when he placed his hand there. Like the boy still didn’t believe an older man wouldn’t hurt him just for existing outside the norm. Hopper didn’t mention it, ever, didn’t need to.

“You know what I’ve learned, kid?” He paused, only long enough for a smokey inhale. He didn’t give Billy the time to say something stupid and brash, some annoying quip. “Life sucks. And it only gets harder. But you can’t look at what you’ve lost like you’ve lost it. You gotta be thankful you ever had it in the first place.” 

“ _‘Tis better to have loved and lost,_ ” Billy had quoted, quiet enough for the words to have been lost in the rush of the storm around them. He wasn’t going to ever admit that he’d loved Steve. Hell, he wasn’t even at the point to consider it. But those cliched, overused words seemed fitting at the time.

When Hopper released Billy from his grip, the boy visibly deflated. Rain flew sideways across the wooded yard, threatening a tornado. Hopper made note to turn the kitchen radio on when he went back inside.

El had the audacity to laugh at him when he was cleaned up, clad in some of Hopper’s loose but wonderfully dry clothes. She had cleaned his hands, the teen having avoided Hopper the second he returned to the cabin’s interior. It was part of their routine, Billy and El and sometimes Hopper, after Billy had had a particularly rough day, for the other two to bandage or clean up the remnants, the outer wounds. Despite the fact that they were almost always something Billy could do himself. It was a rare sight to see Billy allow himself to be helped, so strong and brash and closed off, but he allowed it at those moments.

Hopper had given them space after that. His part had been taken care of outside in the raging storm. The two kids retired to the couch in front of the television, El tucked in beside the older teenager. Her legs were folded into herself, shoulders beneath the heavy arm of someone she considered a friend. It was sickeningly sisterly, domestic in a way Hopper still couldn’t stand thinking about for too long. Like he had somehow acquired another kid. Or his kid had somehow acquired a brother, without even needing him.

The storm outside raged on for the rest of the night, despite the one inside having quieted. It stuck Hopper as unnecessary. Unpoetic. Like the sky should’ve cleared as Billy did. As Hopper looked at them, stuck together like glue, the occasional tear slipping from Jane’s eye that had nothing to do with the movie playing and everything to do with another abandonment, he wondered when his life became this.

“So,” Billy said, calmer nearly three hours after he arrived, “Anyone gonna tell me how El opened the back door without fucking touching it?”

 

He wasn’t going to say goodbye.

But Harrington climbs through his window at eleven thirty that night, brown eyes wild and a backpack slung haphazardly over his shoulder. 

“I’m coming with,” he says, whisper soft and fierce, “This isn’t over, yet.”

“When did I invite you, dumbass?” Billy asks, checking nervously over his shoulder at the closed door.

“When you didn’t say I couldn’t come.”

“That’s not what a fucking invitation is.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care. I’m coming.”

“I dumped you,” Billy says harshly, arms crossing because he knows this can’t happen, Steve can’t just drop everything like he can. Can’t just leave the state because he wants to.

“But you didn’t want to,” Steve states bitterly, but those hopeful, wild brown eyes give him away, peering up from below thick eyelashes. He crosses the small room in a few strides and hooks his fingers through Billy’s belt loops. More bold than he ever would be in the light of a Hawkins day. He pulls Billy roughly forward, “You’re not getting rid of me thiat easy. Made that mistake once already. And even though I can’t fucking stand you most of the time, especially now after that shit you pulled, this is better than anything ever was with Nancy. This is real, Billy, and I’m coming with. I’m getting out of this fucking town. I’m coming with you.”

“You’re gonna regret this.” 

“Not a chance in hell, Hargrove.”

And it’s settled, even if they don’t say it aloud. Steve seals the deal with a rough hand on the back of Billy’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. The first since they ‘broke up,’ and it feels like coming up for a breath of air. Like being near Billy isn’t drowning anymore, it’s surfacing.

Billy is uncharacteristically quiet as they sneak out and put their stuff into the Camaro, which is already packed with everything that really matters to Billy. He packed slowly in the days before so his Dad wouldn’t be suspicious. It’s mostly clothes and the few items that remind him of his mom, of home, and even of Maxine that didn’t end up broken by Neil at some point.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let the momentum end so Steve can rethink what he is doing, how he could be ruining his life. Billy thinks about Newton again, as the pair of cars roar through Hawkins, thinks of how taking a breath could stop this velocity. Could stop this whole thing. It’s selfish, to stop trying to stop Steve. To not be the reasonable one. To not tell the other boy to leave again. But Billy has never claimed to be self-sacrificing. 

They drop Steve’s Beemer back at his house. When Steve rejoins Billy at the Camaro, he pulls the other boy out and tosses the cigarette from his lips, replacing it with his own. Kissing hard and fast and desperate, he shoves the blonde back against his closed door. Hands fist in his jean jacket.

Billy breaks the kiss, resisting the sweet draw of Steve’s lips to quip, “Someone’s gonna see you pretty boy, jumping me out here. Gonna tell mommy and daddy Harrington their boy’s running off with some fag.” 

“I fucking hate you,” Steve whispers against Billy’s lips, corners of his mouth unable to stay down. “Let’s go.” 

Billy complies, not because Steve told him to, but because his foot has been hovering over the gas since he’d stopped. After climbing back into the Camaro, they rocket backwards from the driveway, throwing Steve back against his seat as he whoops loudly. High on the adrenaline that is leaving somewhere in the passenger seat of a car that drives too fast and squeals as its owner peels out.

 

“Pull over at the quarry,” Steve commands as they drive out of his neighborhood, “I need to do something.”

Billy doesn’t question, just does. He’s too high on the prospect of leaving to give a shit about whatever last stop Steve wants, needs. When they pull onto the dirty sand of the quarry, Steve’s hand is fisted around the door handle, eyes wild and mirroring Billy’s, brows and mouth set in hard lines. He flies from the car, grabbing his backpack as he goes. 

The sparse northern conifers litter the quarry’s edge where Billy’s parked, whispering secrets to the breeze. A crow, far in the distance, calls to Steve, questioning him. Questioning his intent, his justification, his claim to the forest this late at night. It asks him, with a loud flutter of feathers, if his vindication is worth the disturbance of their peace, their home. Why his species cannot control their selfishness enough to leave the woods undisturbed in the dark of night. 

After a second of hesitation, unsure if he’s supposed to follow, Billy climbs from the car and joins the other boy on a high, rocky outcrop. Steve stands, still as a statue, with that dreaded bat in his hand. Wind ruffles the strands of hair that fall over his forehead. He’s staring into the inky water tens of feet below him, sweater sleeves rolled up to the elbow where they weren’t before. Rocks raise around him and below him, silhouetting the boy with their sharp unforgiveness. 

Billy saunters up with his hands loosely in his pockets. He drinks the sight in, for a minute. Steve Harrington on the thin edge of a rocky cliff, frozen in the Camaro’s headlights like a deer. The look in his eye, obscured by messy hair and darkness, is feral. Determined. “What’s the plan, pretty boy?” He asks, tearing his eyes from the picturesque sight that Steve has created simply by existing in this moment. 

“This,” Steve says, taking a step back and slinging the bat from his hand with more force than Billy’s seen in a while. It soars through the air, whistling as it goes. The deep splash follows long after the bat clears the quarry wall, time flowing in slow motion as the pair watches it fall.

Billy knows there’s something to that fling, to that bat leaving the hardened grasp of Steve’s hand, of the shuddering breath that follows. Something that he’s not sure he’ll ever know. Something that he doesn’t fucking _get._

The crow understands, too, leaving Billy surrounded by something much larger than himself. The crow calls again, to Steve, calls him to action, to himself. It screams as it flies through rustling needles, ominous and warning. It warns them, it can see their future, their past, their whole being. It warns them, to leave its home.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Steve shouts, halfway back to the car while Billy is still trying to piece together what exactly just happened and why it made the air feel ten times as heavy. The water ripples gently where the bat hit it, buried in a watery grave. Billy salutes it, Hawkins as a whole, lazily before turning on his heel.


	15. Chapter 15

Steve doesn’t say anything, sitting in heavy contemplation and jittery fingers as they pass the sign that marks Hawkins’ edge. Doesn’t say anything to Billy, who is buzzing with freedom, until he merges onto the freeway towards Indianapolis. Which is decidedly the opposite direction of California.

“Uh, Hargrove?” Steve says, turning his eyes from the passing woods to the boy next to him. “I kinda figured we were going to the West Coast?”

“Got an errand to attend to, first,” Billy responds, cryptic as hell. “Besides, _you_ were the one who invited himself on this road trip, you don’t get to bitch about it, amigo.”

Billy’s got one hand on the wheel, the other drifting lazily out the window, no doubt getting covered in passing bugs. There isn’t a single part of him that can find it in himself to care. The lazy smirk on his lips screams a relaxed state. His eyes contradict the rest of him, manic and wild, despite the mood of the car having cooled since the country roads of Hawkins. If it weren’t the dead of night, he would be wearing shades to cover it. 

Steve can see it in him, the beauty of a boy set free, even if it’s hard to look past the image seared into his mind’s eye of Billy the night of Hawkin’s first funnel cloud of the year. Hard to see past that cool, calculated look as he spat harsh words in Steve’s backyard. But Steve Harrington’s always been too forgiving for his own good.

“Don’t bite my head off, man. I was just curious.”

Billy licks his sharp teeth like the thought itself makes his mouth water. Maybe it does.

After they fall into silence again, only the steady trickle of rock music whispering from the radio to accompany them. The dark woods sings to Billy, hushed as they speed by. Reminds him of the easy power of a car, of all the days he spent in Hawkins tempted to twist the steering wheel into the forest as he drove too fast. Reminds him of how his chest is bursting at the seams right now, full of potential and what he could maybe call happiness. Giddiness.

“So,” he says to the other boy, who’s taken to burning holes in the side of Billy’s head with an unrelenting gaze, “How long did it take the shitbird to spill?”

Steve laughs at it, loud and booming, the serenity of the previous moment lost quicker than it came. “Max called the second you took her home.”

“That little bitch can’t keep a secret for shit.”

Steve hits him, a rough shove to the shoulder like the past few days haven’t happened and they are still drinking in the summer sun with the kids in back seat goofing off. Like they have just come from Steve’s pool, like the sky outside isn’t pitch black and painted with stars, like everything is still covered in a thick summer haze, like they aren’t literally running away. Like the damaged caused in Steve’s backyard wasn’t there.

But they are laughing, floating over Indiana in a blue Camaro, and when Billy looks at Steve sitting there with that goofy, punch-drunk smile on his face, he almost can’t believe he hadn’t invited this. Almost.

“She can’t. She radio’d Dustin, too. _And_ she told him I was going with. _Before_ I had even figured it out myself. So then I had to deal with a hysterical brat trying to convince me that this was all a ruse you created to kill me.”

“If I was gonna kill you, pretty boy, I woulda done it a long time ago.”

“Yeah, funny enough, when I told him that, it just made him _more_ hysterical.”

Billy can see him then, really see him for what he is. Laughing in a car in the middle of the night, driving too fast down a long, straight American freeway, mouth stretched wide over a secret. He can see the real Steve Harrington, or what he believes it to be. Not what everyone told him about; not the popular playboy with rich parents, not the broken boy with a bottle in his hand at the quarry, not the boy Nancy dated and changed, not the surrogate mother that drug a gaggle of kids around and complained about it, not the ferocious fiercity of a boy caught in a nightmare with a spiked bat, not the boy laughing in the sunshine with Billy at his side or shoved underneath him, not the boy who ate popsicles and winked, not the boy who fisted Billy’s hair and pulled when his mouth was around the former’s cock, not the one cursing his name as a storm brewed above them. None of these boys sat beside him in the car that night, and all of them sat there at the same time. All of them looked at Billy like he was the sun, caught in a single pair of suspicious brown eyes.

He doesn’t say _I’m glad you came_ even if it’s on the tip of his stubborn tongue. Billy isn’t one for sweet sentiments and happy words. He is fire and anger and hot summer sun. 

“That kid’s too fuckin’ sensitive.”

Steve shoves him again, so Billy swerves wildly on the empty road. “He’s a good kid,” Steve protests, “Even if he’s a little bitch sometimes.”

Sitting there, cruise control on and headlights flooding the road before them, Billy can see the point of it all.

As their laughter fades, Billy asks, more serious than he’d ever intended, “Did you tell your parents you’re running off?”

He watches the Adam’s apple in Steve’s throat bob around a gulp instead of the road before him. Watches Steve shift, suddenly uncomfortable in his seat.

“Yeah. I called them before I went to your house. They’re in New York, right now, so they don’t get to care if I leave. But Dad freaked out and Mom cried for like ten minutes.” Much to Billy’s surprise, his father _freaking out_ is not what causes Steve to dig his nails into the center console. It’s when he says the next part. “But they stopped giving a shit what I did after that. Told me to have fun. Didn’t even ask for a new phone number.” 

Billy doesn’t _get_ it. Doesn’t get why that would cause Steve to grit his teeth when it would make Billy jump for joy if his own father had done the same. But he knows that everyone’s got their own damage. That he doesn’t have to get it, to take Steve’s hand under the guise of prying the fingers from the car’s leather. To keep his hand there, when Steve doesn’t pull away. 

Steve continues, “I know it’s not shit compared to what you’ve dealt with. But it just sucks that they couldn’t even be bothered. I’m their fucking son, you know?”

Billy doesn’t know what to say to that. Because he would’ve given anything in the world for Neil not to have cared. So he rubs circles into the back of Steve’s hand with his thumb, the same way he had done when the other boy would flop across his chest on the pool chairs. “I know, pretty boy,” he says, “Parents are shit, and they fuck you up.”

Steve laughs at that, hand slipping out from under Billy’s and up to cup the other boy’s jaw. “Billy,” he says, serious and _actually using his name_ “I’m going to kiss you, don’t crash the damn car.”

Billy smiles, tongue poking out from behind sharp teeth, “Wanna give me road head while you’re at it?”

Steve kisses him instead of responding, soft and sweet and everything that Billy didn’t know he wanted. Didn’t know he needed. His eyes strain to stay on the dark road, the hand not on the wheel slipping into Steve’s stupid hair. 

They seperate after a few seconds, but Billy’s keeps his hand in Steve’s hair. Lets it slip down to cup the back of his neck in a way that could so easily turn intimidating if he desired. 

“We’ve got like, what, thirty hours in this car? Pretty sure road head in inevitable, dude.”

Now that, that is something Billy can get behind. “Hell yeah it is, princess.”

They pull off into the last rest stop before Indianapolis, exhausted as the adrenaline leaves their bodies in waves as they got further and further from Hawkins. Billy pulls Steve from the car, to lie back on the hood of the Camaro instead. Beneath the twinkling stars in an empty parking lot, they kiss until they can’t breathe. Surrounded by the isolation of the woods, they rut against each other like they’ve been starving for it. Like their lives have been leading up to this moment. Out there in the open, more alone than they’ve ever been before yet so easily caught, Billy shoves his hands down Steve’s pants. Gets him off quicker than he’d meant to. Realises that it doesn’t matter, there’s no need to savor it this time because the end is no longer looming over him. 

When they’re finished, unclean and sticky with sweat and more than a little cum, Billy finally asks.

“ _There’s monsters in those woods_ ” he quotes the boy beside him, whose tee shirt has ridden up to expose the lean muscle beneath, pants still unbuttoned and unzipped, “It wasn’t a metaphor, was it?”

It takes Steve a long time to answer. A long moment of staring at the night sky, wide eyes unusually unreadable. So long that the song drifting from the open windows of the Camaro changes twice. Billy doesn’t push, feeling foreign in his own space as heat radiates off the body beside him at every point they touch. 

Billy burns from the inside out. 

Steve’s hand is ice as it finds Billy’s forearm, curling around and grounding them both as they float into the abyss that is an empty night. “ _There’s monsters out here, too,_ ” Steve quotes back to him, “How much do you know about last fall, Hargrove?”

“I know that El’s got next level super powers, Hopper’s a shitty cop, and that the chemical leak that happened before I got here wasn’t the whole story.”

“How long?”

“The night the sky tried to fucking eat that shit town.” He doesn’t call it the night of their ‘break up’. “You gonna tell me what’s got you fucked in the head, pretty boy?”

“I am not _fucked in the head_ asshole, I’m fine. It’s a long story. And you’re not gonna believe it. Why should I tell you?”

“First off, fine people don’t get drunk at the quarry with their _sworn enemy_ in the middle of the freezing cold night. Secondly, I just told you I watched El move shit _with her mind_ why the fuck wouldn’t I believe whatever nonsense you spew about last fall?”

“Whatever dude. I’ll tell you. But it’s gonna take a lot longer than tonight. And you can call Max if you don’t believe me.”

Billy sticks a cigarette between his lips and tosses another to Steve. “You’ve got thirty hours. That enough time for you, princess?”

Steve finally looks over to Billy. “Yeah,” he takes a puff of his cigarette as his eyes flick between Billy’s, “Yeah, I guess.”

They fall asleep on the hood of that car, conversation over for the time being, beneath the towering trees and open sky, only to wake to some old man yelling from a rumbling car at them to leave as the sun peaks up from the horizon. With cricks in their necks and uncomfortable lines pressed into hard muscles, they fly from the rest stop as they did from their homes the night before.

Billy pulls into the parking lot of the first bank on this edge of Indianapolis that morning. He leaves Steve in the car, storming into the facility with a manilla folder in hand that contradicts the rest of his bad boy punk aesthetic. It throws Steve off, seeing Billy doing something seemingly important and _grown-up._

“Life insurance payout,” Billy says when he rejoins the boy leaning lazily on the Camaro with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. The former steals and lights it, as he throws the folder back into the back seat. “My mom had one. Left it in my name only so Neil couldn’t get at it. Some lawyer made me put it in a trust ‘till I turned eighteen. Load of bullshit, but whatever,” he explains, unprompted, shockingly. Like he knew Steve would press the information out of him on the drive to Cali, and wanted to avoid the whole thing. Or maybe, just maybe, Billy was starting to trust the other boy with his occasional vulnerability.

Billy doesn’t let Steve respond, just peels out of the parking lot and to the nearest drive through to buy cheap greasy food for the long journey ahead of them.

“Pretty boy,” he says when their stomachs are filled and they are close to passing by Hawkins again. “Last chance to bail.” 

“Not happening, Hargrove,” Steve responds, tone fierce and glossing over the uneasiness that comes with this idea in the light of day.

“Then start talking. What the fuck happened last fall?”

When Steve starts, he can’t stop. The words flow out of him, so fast and uncontrollable that he doesn’t even notice as they pass by the Hawkins exits. With every word, Steve is lighter, easier, relieved. Like the the weight of this enormous secret can be lifted by telling just one person who hadn’t experienced it with him.

“I don’t know the whole thing. You’d have to ask the kids for a lot of it,” Steve begins his recap, starting the year before Billy even arrived despite the latter’s endless stream of questions. 

By the time they’ve finished, they’re half way through Missouri and Billy’s legs are cramping up. “So _that’s_ why you had that horror show of a bat,” Billy says when Steve’s finally run out of stories, only bearing the brunt of minor harrassment of the danger of taking his damn sister with him. 

They stop at some bleak gas station to refuel and buy crappy hot dogs to be eaten in the sun on the hood of the Camaro. Steve insists on buying a ridiculous amount of sugary things, citing _road trip food, Billy, you act like you’ve never been on a road trip before_ and making sure enough of them are cherry flavored suckers for Billy. Only half because he likes the way Billy Over-The-Top Hargrove eats them like he’s sucking dick. 

When they slide back into the Camaro, dark shades resting on their noses, Steve says, “Showed you mine, you can show me yours.”

Billy grins wickedly, “Tryin’ to get me naked, Harrington?”

“No, dumbass,” not that he’d ever protest sex, “I told you about my monsters. You can tell me about yours. If you want.”

“Pass, pretty boy.”

“Whatever, dude. I’m just here. If you ever want.”

It takes a full minute, and an extreme amount of jaw flexing before Billy chokes out, “Thanks.”

“What was that?” Steve teases.

“Make me say it again and I’ll pull this damn car over and kick your ass.”

“Please, Hargrove, you don’t scare me anymore.” Which is only a tiny bit of a lie. But sometimes, you just have to be cautious. Especially when you’re running away with a boy who is the sun, trapping you in and heating the fire inside you, who could beat your ass like it was no big deal again. Who you _might_ be dating now? Jury’s still out on that one.

 

They barely make it another hour from the gas station before Billy’s hollowing his cheeks out around a lollipop and palming Steve through his jeans. Pulling his dick out and raising an eyebrow as he strokes it just enough to make Steve hard.

“You gonna make good on that road head promise?”

Steve groans as he returns the favor and pulls Billy’s dick from his jeans, ignoring the smug smirk on Billy’s lips. Though Steve still objectively _sucks_ at giving blowjobs, he’s improved with a little teaching from the first time he tried on Billy. It’s sloppy and there’s too much spit and he can’t really go that deep still, especially from this angle. Just the fact that he’s got _King Steve_ choking on his cock would be enough to end it all though, for Billy. 

He doesn’t last long, with the combination of Steve’s hot mouth and the danger of being caught shooting fiery adrenaline through his veins. It’s heaven, right there on the open road, to have that boy arched back against the seat of his Camaro as Billy fists Steve’s cock roughly, to swerve drunk on lust as they speed over empty roads. 

But Billy does let Steve drive, when they’re being tortured by the long desert roads of Texas. Solely because he wants to bend over the center console and choke on a cock, though, definitely not because his head is starting to spin with the monotony of it all. 

When they pull into their first motel, because Billy can afford it now (hell, he can afford whatever he wants right now, even if he has to save most of the money for boring things like rent and tuition) Billy asks for a double room. They’re deep into Texas, and just the fact that they’re spending the night in the same room is earning him weird looks from the attendant. Or, maybe, it might be the whole mullet and earring thing. Possibly.

The room is small, just enough for two double beds to be shoved in with a television across from one. Steve throws their shit onto one bed the second he steps over the tiny threshold, stretching and groaning loudly before flopping onto the empty bed. Inky black of night pours in through slatted blinds before Billy clicks them shut. To keep out any prying eyes.

A deer head rests on a plaque on the wall, eyes permanently wide and staring. Billy looks at it, mouth twisted up with disgust and icy blue eyes narrowed. 

“Seriously, California boy, you never see a deer on a wall before?”

“Obviously I have, pretty boy. But it’s fuckin’ disgusting.”

“You’ve never like, been hunting? Really?” 

Every boy in Hawkins had been taken out at least once when he entered the cusp of adolescence. It’s just something you _did._ With your dad, usually. Even Dustin had been hunting, taken along one weekend by Lucas’ father. Didn’t go well. 

“Uh, no, you really think I want to kill an animal?”

“Yeah, kinda.” It sits heavy in the air, the implication.

“Well, I don’t do that hillbilly shit, pretty boy. I’m not from hicksville, like you. I don’t fight shit that can’t fight back.”

“Whatever, man. Just don’t look at it if you don’t like it.” Steve rolls his eyes as he turns on the lamp with antlers as a base. The wallpaper is seventies green and peeling where it isn’t browning. It clashes harshly with the bedspreads, much to Steve’s expensive distaste.

The painting on one wall draws Billy in like a moth to a flame. It depicts another deer, standing tall and proud, with a hunter hiding in the trees behind it. _Run_ he pleads with the deer, _He’s behind you, he’ll end you, you are free, he will take that from you._

They fall asleep entangled on a bed that doesn’t quite fit two almost men, television whispering secrets to them as they sleep with the lights still on even if they’re hundreds of miles from Hawkins. Each boy still caught in the idea of their own monsters still hunting them. Stalking them past the make believe restrictive boundary of Hawkins, following them all the way out here, waiting to pounce. To sink their teeth in, to ruin what they have in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we are really nearing the end of this fic. One more chapter I think! 
> 
> I have a big long epilogue planned out, does anyone prefer if it was short and connected to this fic then have multiple stand alone stories as part of the series _or_ have a fully separate really long epilogue story in the series? I would love your advice.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is really short and the final chapter before the epilogue. Tbh I can't believe I actually finished a fic. Especially one this long.

They wake early, still bathed in dull yellow light and closed off from the rest of the world. Billy’s limbs are loose and carefree, draped lazily over Steve’s back as the latter is sprawled out on his chest. Billy’s left pec is slightly damp with Steve’s drool, which is _gross_ and he’s never gonna let the brunet live it down.

Billy’s never been a cuddler. Never been one to hold or be held in any way other than threatening. But he does it, now, for Steve, because he’s never met a more cuddly guy. He does it now, still stuck in that painting across the room, because this boy has given up his whole (very shitty) planned future to be here, to do this. He does it now, for an entirely selfish reason, too, because now that he’s caught Steve in the trap that is Billy Hargrove, he can’t bear the thought of the other boy leaving. Now that it’s real. Something other than two stupid, horny teenagers with too much pent up rage drinking at the quarry or fucking around in a big, silent house. It’s _real._ Or at least, it could be. This messed up monster of a thing between them has potential, now.

Steve traces lazy circles on Billy’s stomach with the tips of his fingers. Brushes through the trail of hair there as he stares at the rotting wallpaper. Lost in his own world, far off and unreachable by Billy in this moment. His head bounces minutely on Billy’s breast, in time with the blond’s heartbeat. 

They are at peace, in a way. Hot and heavy, with sheets tangled around their ankles, the crappy AC in the motel room doing little to reduce the rising desert heat. This moment, dull and hazy in the aftermath of a night of quality sleep that both boys have been deprived of for too long, is another dimension, Billy thinks. It is seperate from the rest of the aging world around them. Out here in the middle of nowhere Texas, Hawkins and all its faults don’t exist. They could stay in a slice of another world forever, in that lumpy bed, and their monsters couldn’t catch up to them until they break the dream.

The moment has to break eventually, though, and they must return to a world trying its hardest to eat them alive. 

The man at the front desk is cleaning his shotgun when they return the key. Slow pulls of a cloth over the long barrel that Billy can’t imagine isn’t pointed directly at him. He spits fire as they leave, Steve’s hand wrapped around his bicep and pulling him away before he can really get himself shot. 

In the car, hot dusty air washing over the interior of the Camaro, Billy is free again. Far from the confines of a rotting room, he can breathe in the dry desert air without pause. There is no contemplation on the open road. Not with music booming from the cassette Billy put together for this _exact_ purpose. The kind of music that is so loud and in your face you can’t even think about thinking about anything else, lest it be drowned out. 

New Mexico passes in a haze of red dust and loud music that upsets Steve’s upper class sensibilities. Six long hours float by with idle conversation and near constant bickering, only paused when they stop in Albuquerque to get gas and cheap food. 

Arizona is more of the same, an ocean of dry sand before them as the straight road disappears into the horizon. As they get closer and closer to the border, Billy inflates with what Steve would call _excitement_ had Billy been a normal person. And not, well, Billy Fucking Hargrove. His speech speeds, his insults get less severe, his driving even more intense and reckless. Like the nearer they are to California, the more invincible they become, the less likely they are to _die_ if he messes around behind the wheel too much. Which is _not_ true. But Billy is invincible, growing more so with every mile he puts between them and Hawkins.

Billy whoops with loud, unobstructed joy when they pass the sign welcoming them to California. They are on the wrong side of the state, still far from white sandy beaches and beautiful people with too-dark tans and bleach blonde hair. Too far from an environment that screams _give me attention_ almost as loudly as Billy himself does. 

The rolling sandy mountains and arid plants are Billy’s home, harsh and hot and unforgiving, mirroring him. He is truly a product of his environment, in every way possible. Billy Hargrove is hot sand and dripping sweat and a thirst that cannot be quenched.

In the same way that Billy knows he is home, Steve realises he didn’t know the meaning of the word until he’s left his. 

 

They spend their first night in San Diego on a reclusive beach, starfished on a sandy blanket from the trunk of the Camaro. Not a care in the world that they could be caught by anyone simply walking on the beach. 

“Remind me why we aren’t inside a shitty motel right now? Where they have air conditioning and a bed that _isn’t_ made of rocks,” Steve says as they lie beneath stars hidden by light pollution. It strikes him as odd, this lack of stars, because in Hawkins, Indiana, they are never far from reach. Even if they are hidden, they will return by the next night, shining bright and keeping the world company in a cruel woods.

“ _Because,_ princess, you haven’t lived ‘till you’ve spent a night on the beach.”

“That’s a load of bullshit, Hargrove, we’re gonna get eaten alive by bugs and it’s gonna be your damn fault.”

“Excuse me? I didn’t hear you complaining when we slept on the hood of my car. Which is unarguably more uncomfortable than this. Two days ago, too, or are you that fucking dense?”

“ _That night_ your hands were down my pants.”

“So damn needy,” Billy groans, tearing his eyes from the polluted sky to look at the boy next to him, who is propped up on one elbow, idle hand worrying the edge of a blanket. He kisses Steve, slow and deep, almost what some could argue as sweet. Billy Hargrove is not _sweet._

There is fire on his tongue when he sits up and strips off his shirt. He throws it in Steve’s face, laughs at the annoyed grunt that follows, before shucking his pants off as well. Throws those at Steve, too, for good measure. “Ever been skinny dipping, pretty boy?” He calls behind him as he sprints to the ocean, in a race with no one but himself. 

Steve growls, “ _Yes_ ” be cause of course he has, his family has a damn pool and before Nancy and Billy, there had been a lot of girls easily seduced by the intrigue that is the danger of swimming naked in a backyard pool. _And_ he and Billy spent like _half_ of this summer doing just that, so Billy _knows_ that he has, he’s just being a dick. Like always. 

But Steve follows anyway, chasing down a boy who is seemingly miles ahead of him, away from him, already in the ocean. 

When he catches up, groaning at the cold seawater, Billy laughs, “I meant really skinny dipping, dumbass, like in the ocean.” Billy _knows_ the answer to that. He’s manic again, can feel energy pulsating through his veins in the dull, far off light of his city. He grabs Steve roughly, kissing him and pushing them both underwater because he knows it’ll piss the other boy off to get his hair soaked when he’s got nowhere to style it after. “Plant your feet, Harrington,” he shouts as the boy goes under.

When he surfaces, spluttering salty water and shoving Billy, Steve says, “Yeah, like there’s actually a fucking difference.”

“Shut up, dude, there’s every difference in the damn world.” Billy gets a mouthful of water for that one, splashed roughly because they both know Steve couldn’t actually take him down when he’s prepared for it. Not that Steve doesn’t try. Full of perseverance, that one.

“No, there isn’t, you’re just an asshole.”

They kiss, burning in a cold ocean as the night is heavy around them. Steve tastes of cherry suckers and cigarettes, saltwater and something Billy can’t ever get enough of.

 

By the time they find an apartment, way out in Oceanside, far away from the bustling city that Billy would rather be in but real close to the beach so it’s not the worst, all Billy’s bruises have mostly faded. His knuckles are a little more yellow than they should be, those that used to litter his chest randomly from existing in the same universe as his father only harsh memories, the small blossom of purple on his cheek courtesy of Steve only a slight discolouration. The crescent moons pierced into his palms only an uncomfortable formation of scabs that give almost everything a tinge of pain. He can’t remember a time, not for years and years, that he’s been completely injury free. 

The last time there was nothing on him, not inflicted by himself or his father or whoever he got into a fight with that week or even Steve Harrington himself, had to have been back when his mother was still alive. Four years ago. Which is actually really fucking pathetic, if Billy really thinks about it. Billy Hargrove has been fist fights and a sharp tongue longer than that, but that’s when he really lost most of his control. Had it taken fully away from him by a monster of human wearing his father’s skin.

They barely furnish the apartment, fill it with crappy secondhand furniture and too many ways to play their music too loud, a mattress on the floor and like, two pans. But when they’ve finished carting shit up from the Camaro, it is theirs. It is the first thing, besides the Camaro, that is well and truly Billy’s. That can’t be taken from him or broken, something that no one will ever be able to steal.

They are two young men, possibly in love, surely not far from it, free in a world made for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Anyone know who started the seemingly fanon idea that Billy likes cherry flavored things? Bc I first read it in brawlite's cherry pie (which is what got me into this pairing so kudos to brawlite) and loved it but I have no clue where it started.


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chromeo by cleopatrick is the ultimate Harringrove song btw. Exhibit A: "Now if chromeo says he needs a lover  
> Then girls were boring any way, and maybe if I'm gay he’ll say I'm cool enough to hang with in the summer"

Billy and Steve had broken up for over a year and a half, when Billy was a barely sophomore in college, so Steve could go to Chicago and train to be a police officer. They needed time apart, Steve needed time to figure out what he wanted, Billy needed to work on himself. They couldn’t just jump into happily ever after from Hell.

“I need to go back,” he had said, “I need to get the Midwest out of me, out of my system.”

Steve has the Midwest deep in his bones, Indiana sunk in and reverberating since he left. It pours off him in the hot heat of rolling SoCal, mirroring Billy’s entrance to Hawkins. Ice and snow run through his veins in the same way heat vibrates from Billy’s skin. Steve Harrington is a small town boy in the big city, bouncing from serving job to security, fumbling around like every young talent in LA, _trying to find himself._

And Billy had just said, “I know,” because truthfully, he had known it was only a matter of time. “Find someone else, while you’re there. I’m not going to be the only boy you fuck.”

“I love you,” had been Steve’s response, “I’ll come back for you.”

Billy had doubted that. 

When Steve had knocked on his door nearly two years later, hair cut short and looking pale as hell, Billy punched him. Right in the face. Because what else was he supposed to do?

And Steve kissed him in return. Kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, in the hallway of their apartment building, not caring that it could make them homeless.

“I could arrest you, you know,” Steve had said with a bag of peas on his eye when they finally made it into the apartment, “For assaulting a San Diego Police Officer.”

“You idiot,” Billy had said, “We live in Oceanside.” 

It didn’t escape Steve how he said ‘we’. It didn’t escape Billy, either, but he had known the second Steve stepped over the threshold that it would be ‘we’. That it would be ‘we’ for as long as Steve would put up with him. Even if over a year apart meant they had a lot to work on. 

“I’ll commute,” Steve told him. Truthfully, taking the San Diego job had been purposeful. So no one would ask questions on why he was living in a one bedroom with another man. If Billy would have him back, that is.

 

“A gay cop, huh?” Billy asks, sprawled out on the bed as he looks at an absolutely _fucked over_ Steve Harrington. A Steve Harrington with hair shaved short on the sides, top still long enough to flop over his forehead and for him to look annoyed as hell when he pushes it back. A Steve Harrington with hard muscles finally rivalling Billy’s, grown strong in the academy after having been atrophied in the San Diego sun nearly two years prior. A Steve Harrington who lost his boyish youth, his quiet melancholy, his safety in a quarry long ago. A man lies before him now, still young and freer than a bird from a cage, but _almost_ grown-up. 

Twenty one and starting over, picking up where they left off.

They don’t talk about what happened in the many months Steve had been gone. Billy doesn’t say he fucked his way down the coast, spending the night in different beds until he was numb to the thought of anything Steve-related and ready to go back to the apartment they once shared. Steve doesn’t say that he tried dating another guy, back in Chicago for nearly five months and hated it so much the thought of going back there made him want to die. That there was a girl he knew he could fall in love with, if he stayed back there. If he hadn’t been stuck on Billy.

Billy had cut his hair at some point in the time Steve was gone. 

Not _because_ of Steve leaving, he likes to lie to himself. He loved his damn hair, his long blond curls and the way they rested on his shoulders and hid his earring just enough to surprise people. But they were a sharp reminder of Hawkins, Indiana, and everything that had come before it. So one night, alone in an apartment with the music so loud the neighbours would complain, Billy had taken shears to those curls. He left it long and floppy, curling around the back of his neck but more in line with the top of his hair. He’d looked too damn _normal_ too, so like any sane person, he’d proceeded to shove a safety pin through his upper ear. And his lip. And then he’d gone to his usual tattoo shop and gotten his nipples done, too. Really, what else was he supposed to do?

So when Steve showed up again, Billy was stuck riding this weird line between rocker and punk, and he just kept going. Because he could. No one could ever stop him from doing whatever the hell he wanted, ever again. And he looked hotter than ever, if anyone were to ask him. 

“I _told you,_ it’s called _bisexual_ and there’s a lot of us in California. Remember New Lambda? And you _knew_ I was gonna be a cop, dickhead.”

Billy laughs at that, “Oh yeah, ‘Owen’s church says ‘Homos deserve AIDS’’ written in the sky, how could I forget that shitshow?”

Steve laughs, remembering the march in much different light. Remembering Billy look hulking and intimidating, scaring the shit out of anyone and everyone and getting drunk on the beach and kissing him there, out in the open surrounded by other people who were like them. 

A Billy Hargrove, young and thriving in college, his nose routinely stuck in a textbook Steve couldn’t care less about, fresh tattoo healing on his shoulder, a surfboard under his arm. He’d spent the evening in the ocean, far off as Steve sat under a tacky rainbow umbrella on the beach, reading dumb comics and talking to strangers that couldn’t keep their eyes off Billy when he’d returned to watch the sunset on Steve’s towel, barking insults to those keeping Steve company. 

They’d wandered the streets drunkenly, the concrete jungle rising above them in the dark, rainbows still pasted in windows. Billy had been different, that day, free. The guy didn’t get less corrosive or corruptive as they lived in the sun, but he moved towards the fun kind of aggressive and slightly away from the scary kind.

“Besides, does it matter? You’re still a fag in a uniform.”

And Steve can see what he’s implying, hidden under layers of asshole-ery. He’s gotten used to Billy’s caring wrapped in layers of jerk. Billy knows cop-types, knows San Diego, knows that being on the force and being anything but straight could get Steve killed or at least beaten to a pulp if they were found out. He knows it might be nineteen eighty-nine, blossoming spring in the rest of the world that isn’t the perpetual summer like SoCal, but the police force is still stuck decades behind them. He knows that being found out could cost him his career, get him stuck as a low level beat cop for the rest of his life, but in that moment, lying across from a man that Steve couldn’t believe he’d spent so long away from, it doesn’t matter.

“Whatever, man, I just got back, can you try and not be an asshole for like, a few hours?”

Billy laughs again, not kind nor happy like Steve thinks it should be, but not yet cruel, “Pretty boy-” It’s been too long since those words were on his tongue, “-You know better than that.”

“Billium Hargrove,” Steve starts, almost drowned out by Billy’s loud groan.

“That was almost four _fucking_ years ago, let it go, I’m going to _kill_ Henderson.”

“No, you’re not,” Steve says, “Shut up and let me say something.”

“Oh, pretty boy, you put that big head to use and actually think about something? Color me surprised.”

“I _said_ shut up, Hargrove,” he pushes Billy on the chest lightly, “I’m trying to be fuckin’ real here, okay?”

“Fucking spit it out then, man.”

“You ruined it. The moment is ruined, and it’s your fault.”

“ _Whatever,_ Harrington.”

“Fine!” Steve lays his arm across Billy’s chest, like he always used to, that summer in Hawkins and when they first got the apartment and before Billy’s life kind of went to shit, again. Billy’s on his back, hand in Steve’s thick hair, admiring how the shorter cut suits him, even if it’s not quite right. Steve is on his side, facing Billy with his chin propped on the hand not running through the blonde hairs on Billy’s abdomen. He’s beautiful, Billy thinks, different and changed and heated behind the ears, but still the same man he loved before. 

“I just wanted to say,” Steve starts, cheeks gaining color as he does, “That I thought about it, us, a lot. While I was back. And you always fucking said that I wanted to get married and have kids and all that bullshit. Settle down and have a shit boring life. And you were fucking right. Okay? I want that shit. I want that shit with you, you fucker. Okay? I don’t care that it’s not legal or whatever, or if we can’t have kids that are ours, or if my dad’s gonna disown me and no one will show up to our wedding except for those stupid kids. I want that shit with you.”

“Are you seriously fucking proposing to me right now, Harrington?”

“No, asshole. I’m just saying that one day, Billy Hargrove, I’m gonna fucking marry your punk ass.”

“Fine,” Billy says, pulling Steve in for a kiss that makes him believe it’s a lot more than just _fine_ “But _you_ are taking my damn name. I am _not_ gonna be a Harrington.”

“Bullshit,” Steve says against Billy’s lips, a smile that makes it feel like maybe, in some weird, roundabout way, he did just propose. “You love my name.”

 

Maxine visits the summer after she gets her license in the fall of ‘88, far enough past her birthday for Billy to tease her mercilessly for it. Drives thirty hours _alone_ despite her mother’s protests, wild as Billy had been but given the freedom to express it. Calls Billy from every payphone in every tiny, messed up town on the trip, hours apart. Spends the night in her VW Beetle, even though she catches heat from both young men when she does. Maxine Mayfield is fire and defiance and _Who the fuck cares, Steve, you would’ve done the same._ Doesn’t care when everyone around her protests _you’re seventeen, Max._

She stays for a month and gets on everyone’s nerves. When she enrolls in UCLA, Billy is secretly thankful to have her on the coast again. They pick up surfing like it had been only seconds instead of five years. Though Billy had been surfing since he got back. 

He hadn’t planned on it, because part of him felt like it had been ruined by the move. But when he walked into the apartment one day to see a board haphazardly propped up against the couch, it made him ache in a way he hadn’t for a long time. 

It was September, past the prime of the season their first year in the apartment, when Steve bought it.

“A little birdy told me you broke your last one.”

“Does that little birdy have red hair and a big fucking mouth?”

But really, Billy was a lot more thankful to have a board than he would ever admit to Steve or Max.

He spent his evenings on the waves, rusty as all hell but picking it back up relatively quickly. Steve watched from the beach, stretched out on a towel with his hand thrown over his eyes, hot even when the native Californians are complaining about the ‘nip’ in the air. 

Very few people ever joined Billy in the water that fall, complaining of the cold. But Billy had a wetsuit and enough fire in his soul to keep his body warm, so he surfed to his heart’s content. He tried to teach Steve how to surf, but it just ended in a bruised and frustrated boyfriend. 

So Steve stays on the sidelines after that, working on a tan that won’t stick and flirting with girls to get them free ice cream. He stays on the sidelines even as Max taunts him from the waves, a clone of Billy who just happens to have red hair instead of blond and matching fiery eyes. He smokes his way through packs of cigarettes and dimes of weed, good California shit, not caring even when he becomes a cop. When Billy looks at him, a smudge of pale skin covered in more moles when the sun touches him, from the ocean, he is beautiful. Beautiful in a way that no California boy can compete with.

Dustin enrolls in Caltech, much to Steve’s secret delight. They’re the only four from Hawkins that end up on the coast. Will goes to some fancy art school in Chicago that he couldn’t shut up about at their graduation; Mike goes to some community college in Indianapolis because he was a little shit throughout high school and fucked his own chances at anything better; Lucas goes to the college in Alabama that his dad went to. _Max,_ he says over the phone one day when she’s over at the apartment racking up their phone bill with long distance calls, _I hate the south._ And she laughs at him, _But Max, I’m not the only black kid here._ And Max sort of gets it, gets it because when she’s back in Cali she belongs, and she wonders if that’s what he’s talking about, even if he doesn’t say it, doesn’t mean it like that. Even if it’s not really the same.

And Billy’s heard of that college. He doesn’t care enough about Lucas to pay any attention to what it is other than it’s that one with the famous pilots or some shit.

They had driven back to Hawkins in spring of ‘90, to witness the disaster that was the brats’ graduation. Through sand and trees and whistling wind, Billy had taken Steve’s hand in the light of day. In the privacy of an aging blue Camaro, by a quarry Billy hadn’t seen in four years, Steve had kissed him and promised the world in his hands. 

The ceremony had been a whirlwind of loud kids, grown old but not mature. Dustin shouting as he crossed the stage, Will with still too-big brown eyes, Maxine’s fire and fury, Billy sandwiched between Joyce and Steve instead of his father and Susan. El crossed the stage as _Jane Hopper,_ having enrolled in real school for her junior year. 

There had been a confrontation in that gym, after almost everyone had trickled out except for the party and the Hargroves. Neil had been watching Billy, waiting for a tell, for anything. He hadn’t been warned of the prodigal son’s return, expected to take it in when Billy showed up to a graduation ceremony with some twink practically on his arm. Billy hadn’t so much as looked the man’s way. This was behind him, four years past, he was a damn _adult._ Maxine had flitted back and forth, between the two groups with fire on her tongue and anguish in her eyes. 

It hadn’t taken long after the ending speech for Neil Hargrove to approach Billy. To stalk up, ready to sink his teeth into his prey. Expecting the same boy who had fled in the middle of the night four years ago. Expecting _cowardice._

“You have the _nerve_ to show up to Maxine’s graduation, when you couldn’t be bothered to attend your own, _boy?_ ” He’d said, cold as ice and in Billy’s face. Quiet enough to not attract any more attention than what Billy already got just for existing. Calculated.

“Yes, sir,” Billy said back, serious but still mocking the words he was forced to say so frequently. He didn’t back down like he knew he was supposed to. 

Neil hadn’t wasted any time, years away from his favorite punching bag fueling the harsh rage behind his eyes. He’d gotten closer to Billy, fingers itching to throw a punch, to get back at his only son for the years he’d been free. “And you bring some _faggot_ with, you embarrassment.” He’d known exactly what he was doing, the way his words made Billy twitch, even after so long apart. He’d pushed past Billy then, shoving him over to collect Max, mumbling another insult under his breath.

The shove had been all Billy’d needed to swing, catching his father in the face and sending him roughly to the gym floor. Steve had been on him after that, dragging him back as Billy saw nothing but red. Neil had been shouting as he got back to his feet, things Billy couldn’t hear over the rush of his own blood in his ears but could feel in the way Steve’s grip tightened threateningly around his arms. 

He’d seen his father rush at him, angrier than he’d ever been. Billy was gnashing teeth and spitting fire, fighting to get out of an unrelenting grip as Maxine joined Steve in keeping him back. Hopper had intercepted Neil before he’d been even close to reaching his son again, taking him down smoothly. Had punched him straight in the face, citing that fact that he had the day off. Spitting something about how he couldn’t stand men like Neil Hargrove. Billy hadn’t heard any of it, being dragged from the gym by a gaggle of teens and his boyfriend. 

It took him a long time to cool down, outside in damp grass and blue skies. With Steve’s hand still wrapped around his bicep, the red had slowly cleared from his vision. He was twenty-one and he’d just _hit_ his father.

Joyce hosted another graduation party, this time for Will, obviously, but still managing to make the rest of the party feel included. Everyone stayed after the initial party finished, for a dinner made special for those who endured hell in the fall of nineteen eighty-five. They sipped cheap California wine from coffee mugs and mismatched glasses, Hopper being shit at his job and allowing even those underage to participate. 

Maxine, eighteen and more beautiful than Billy had expected from the snotty kid he once knew, sat under his arm, leaned against his chest. Like she was still young and small and traumatized by the events of her short life. He could see himself in everything she did, so much it was hard to believe they weren’t actually related. 

He could see himself in her ferocious blue eyes, in the way she snapped and teased with sarcasm dripping from her tongue, in the way she demanded, in the way she cursed, in her fierce love of her car, in the boyish features that grew into something no one could deny as pretty. She was too old and too adult to shove her way under his arm, but she did anyway, breathing fire at anyone who dared comment. 

So he sipped cheap wine that he and Steve had brought from Cali in a mug with a stupid saying on it, Max under one arm and Steve under the other. Ignored the way Hopper still couldn’t look him in the eyes if he and Steve were touching too much. Ignored the way Dustin gagged loudly when Steve rested a hand on Billy’s thigh.

Hawkins, Indiana didn’t have shit on Billy Hargrove. 

The other kids had grown up, too. It hadn’t been what Billy’d expected, for some reason, when they’d showed up to crash at the cabin and El had no longer been a weird kid. When they’d showed up and she’d been a full on, _woman._ A weird one, but still. He’d been able to keep track of Max, as she visited the previous summer and called him too frequently. They all still looked ridiculously young, much younger than Billy thought he and Steve ever looked as they revelled in that summer and ran away to Cali. 

“Thanks for ruining graduation, by the way, dickhead. It was awesome. You got Hopper to actually _hit_ Neil. Awesome.” Max had said after finishing her first glass of wine. 

And El, looking like some sort of grunge icon in Joyce’s old clothes that she had a habit of stealing, just added, “Bitchin’.”

Mike had laughed and Hopper had scolded her, even though no one was really a kid anymore. 

After three mugs of wine, Nancy had asked around a hiccup, “So, like, um, Steve?” She’d gestured between the two men shoved next to each other on the couch, “Uh, how long have you been… Gay?”

Billy had laughed at her, cruelly, “Wait, Harrington, we’ve been fucking on and off for four damn years and these two never figured it out? Wheeler, why’d you _think_ your ex ran off to live with a guy?” It had turned her cheeks bright red and flustered, hiding around her mug again.

Steve had turned to the kids instead, laughing, “You dickheads _seriously_ managed to keep a secret this long? I’m shocked.”

But he’d still ended up explaining bisexuality to Nancy, even though she was _supposed_ to hear about this shit in college and not ask her ex boyfriend about it. And Jonathan had just looked back and forth between Billy and Steve, _four years?_ written clearly on his wrinkled brow.

Jonathan had asked later, weird art kid aura heightened by three years in college, “What are _you_ gonna do with an _English_ major, man?” Brass with wine and found confidence in his three years of art school.

Billy had spit, “The fuck are _you_ gonna do with a photography major, dude?” at the same time Steve had said, “It’s a _Literary Arts_ major, he never fucking shuts up about it.”

Jonathan had just put his hands up in surrender. 

 

Maxine spends the month before UCLA move in day with Billy and Steve, citing her own need to flee that house in Hawkins. She drives them crazy, wild and free and young as they show her around Oceanside. She skates down rolling hills and at the various skate parks and generally just is set free in a way that Billy can remember so clearly being. 

Dustin joins them for a week before he is off to Caltech and makes Billy ready to end it all with all of his nerdy screeching that hasn’t seemed to change even if his voice did. He and Steve bond over being Midwest kids lost on the coast. They swim when Steve is off work and Billy and Max are riding the waves, all circling each other in their own worlds. 

When the kids, now adults, leave, Billy can look at this boy, this man, and know he’s really living. He can look at a man lying on his bed with a tight tee shirt on and a badge hanging around his neck and know this is what life is supposed to be. It is supposed to be loud music and booze after class, slow kisses in the middle of the night, surfboards in the water, healing tattoos, a cop who smokes too much weed, cigarettes in bed while lying next to a man he loves, hot coffee and textbooks, a job in a garage as a mechanic. Next to a man determined to fucking _marry him_ one day. Life is supposed to be this easy, for the only fears to be a failed class or a shitty day at work, making rent on time and finding a way home from the bar in the middle of the night. 

The trees surrounding Hawkins didn’t seem so haunted when they left for the last time. The monsters in there, out here, don’t matter if he’s got a partner in crime. Nothing matters at the same time that everything does. 

Billy Hargrove is twenty-two and free, he is dampened fire and white-hot coals, he is California sun and sand. He is still bruises and quick to a fight, sharp biting teeth and a harsh tongue, but he is different. He is invincible, he is the sun, he is finally _happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Max has a light green 1980 VW Beetle. Will goes to School of the Art Institute of Chicago and Lucas goes to Tuskegee University if you didn't catch it from my vague descriptions. New Lambda was 1987 San Diego pride and the Owen's church thing was a real thing that happened. By the end of this fic, Billy's got like three ear piercings, his lip, his nipples, and a prince albert as well as a bunch of tattoos. Because I love punk-ish Billy, ok?
> 
> So this is the end but I've got some other stories for the series, one is mostly finished. I'm gonna try to finish that one quickly but uni starts tomorrow so we will see how fast that happens. If you made it all the way to the end of this, thank you! It's the first long thing I've ever truly finished. And if there's a section you want me to make into it's own short story (like the Dustin one) please let me know, I forgot how much I love writing and want to keep it up even after classes start.


End file.
